A/N: A few people mentioned that the Stark children should have lightsabres but I've never read anything on Luke carrying extra Kyber crystals so that's not possible...yet. Expect the next chapter for Kill The Boy tomorrow! If you enjoyed this chapter, please give it a like :)
If you want to read 5-9 chapters ahead, patreon: https://www.patreon.com/FullHorizon
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Year 298 AC/7 ABY
Winterfell, The North
The ancient leather creaked beneath Luke's fingers as he turned another brittle page, dust motes dancing in the shaft of morning light that slanted through Winterfell's library window. The smell of old parchment and binding glue filled his nostrils—earthy, almost mushroom-like, with an undertone of centuries-old ink that had long since faded from black to brown.
"And in the days of the Long Night, when the dead walked and the Others came riding on their pale spiders, there arose heroes who wielded the secret fire..."
Luke's eyes narrowed. Secret fire. He'd seen that phrase three times now, in three different texts spanning a thousand years. His fingers traced the faded illumination beside the words—a figure wreathed in flames that didn't burn, hands raised as if conducting some invisible symphony.
The wooden chair groaned as he shifted, reaching for another tome. This one bore the sigil of House Dayne on its cover, the falling star rendered in silver leaf that had mostly flaked away. Inside, the Valyrian glyphs were only half-familiar, but the Force whispered their meaning as his eyes tracked across the page.
"The Sword of the Morning came not from steel alone, but from the star-heart within. Those who could hear its song could make the blade burn white as dawn..."
A chill ran down Luke's spine that had nothing to do with the North's perpetual cold. He'd felt that same resonance when he'd first held a lightsaber crystal on Ilum—the way the Force sang through certain materials, waiting for the right conduit.
The door hinges squealed, making him glance up. Maester Luwin shuffled in, grey robes whispering against the stone floor, carrying an armload of even older volumes. The chains at his neck clinked softly—each link representing mastery of a different discipline. The old man's eyes, sharp despite his years, fixed on the books spread across Luke's table.
"Still chasing shadows in our histories?" Luwin's voice held equal parts amusement and concern. "Lady Stark mentioned you've been here every morning for a sennight."
"Not shadows." Luke carefully closed the Dayne chronicle. "Patterns."
Luwin set his burden down with a soft thump that sent more dust swirling. "Patterns in children's tales and songs? The Long Night is a story to frighten babes."
"Is it?" Luke pulled forward another book—this one from the Citadel itself, bearing the stamp of Oldtown. "Your own histories record the Wall's construction. Eight thousand years ago. A structure that massive, built with such haste... what were they keeping out?"
The maester's fingers worried at his chain, making the links sing against each other. "The wildlings, most like. Or some forgotten kingdom of the First Men."
"A unmelting wall of ice seven hundred feet high and three hundred miles long. For wildlings." Luke's tone stayed mild, but he felt Luwin's discomfort. The old man knew the mathematics didn't add up, had probably known for years. But the Citadel taught skepticism of magic like a religion.
Luke opened the Oldtown book to a marked page. "Here. The account of Maester Yorick, who served at Winterfell three hundred years ago. He writes of finding obsidian blades in the crypts, alongside the oldest Stark tombs. Dragonglass, shaped into weapons. Why would the Kings of Winter need volcanic glass when they had iron and steel?"
"Ceremonial purposes, perhaps—"
"And this." Luke flipped to another marker. "The Nightfort. Every account mentions the Black Gate, which opens only for the Night's Watch. A gate that recognizes oaths. That judges men." He looked up, meeting Luwin's increasingly troubled gaze. "What kind of masonry can judge a man's heart?"
The maester sank into the opposite chair, suddenly looking every one of his sixty-odd years. "You speak of magic."
"I speak of forces beyond common understanding." Luke's hand moved to the lightsaber hidden beneath his cloak, feeling its familiar weight. Not so different from Dawn, perhaps, or the other storied blades of this world. "Tell me, Maester—what do you know of warging?"
Luwin's intake of breath was sharp. "Superstition. Northern foolishness about men who can enter the minds of beasts."
"Lord Stark's children all have wolves now. Wolves that obey commands never spoken aloud." Luke leaned forward. "You've seen it yourself."
"Coincidence. The bonds between men and animals can seem—"
Luwin's hands had stilled on his chain. Behind his eyes, Luke could feel the careful walls of scholarly skepticism beginning to crack. The old man had dedicated his life to the belief that the world operated on knowable, measurable principles. But he'd also lived forty years in the North, where winter winds carried more than just cold.
"I've found seventeen separate accounts of skinchangers," Luke continued, his voice gentle now. "From the Age of Heroes through the Andal invasion. The terminology changes—wargs, greenseers, woods witches—but the abilities described are consistent. Men who could touch minds across distance. Who could see through other eyes. Who could influence the thoughts of others."
He pulled forward a slim volume bound in weirwood bark. "This one's from your own library. The testimony of Maester Harys, who witnessed the submission of the Warg King at Sea Dragon Point. He describes how the King commanded his beasts without words, how eagles served as his eyes, how bears and wolves fought with human cunning." Luke's blue eyes found Luwin's grey ones. "Harys was a maester of sixteen links. Not given to fancy."
"Even if... even if such things were possible once..." Luwin's voice had dropped to barely above a whisper. "Magic is gone from the world. The dragons are dead. The children of the forest are no more. Whatever powers once existed have faded like—"
"Like morning mist?" Luke smiled slightly. "The world's magic isn't gone, Maester. It's sleeping. And something's waking it up."
He gestured to the books scattered between them. "Every one of these texts mentions the same signs. The return of the Others preceded by strange dreams, by beasts behaving oddly, by men discovering abilities they'd never had before. The last hero didn't defeat the darkness with bronze swords and courage alone. He had help. Power that matched power."
Luwin's laugh was shaky. "And I suppose you think Lord Stark's children are developing these... abilities?"
"Maester," Luke said finally, "what's the Citadel's position on the higher mysteries?"
"That they are remnants of a more credulous age. That what our ancestors called magic was simply phenomena they couldn't explain. That knowledge and reason will always triumph over superstition."
"And yet you forged a Valyrian steel link."
Luwin's hand went involuntarily to his chain, fingers finding the rippled black metal among the others. "The study of the occult is... traditional. To better understand what we've moved beyond."
"Valyrian steel that never loses its edge. That cuts through regular metal like parchment. That holds ripples in its surface that no smith can replicate." Luke stood, moving to the window. Outside, Jon and Robb were sparring in the courtyard, their movements almost too fast to follow. "What if the Citadel is wrong? What if magic isn't superstition, but simply a force we've forgotten how to recognize?"
He turned back to find Luwin staring at the books with an expression of profound uncertainty. The maester's worldview—forty years of careful scholarship and rational thought—was crumbling like old mortar.
"If what you're suggesting is true," Luwin said slowly, "if the old powers are returning, if the Long Night was real..." He trailed off, unable to voice the implications.
"I believe truth wears different masks in different places." Luke moved back to the table, his fingers brushing across the ancient texts. "But yes. The skinchangers, the greenseers, the pyromancers of Valyria—they all touched the same fundamental power. They just called it by different names."
Luwin was quiet for a long moment, processing. Outside, steel rang against steel as the boys continued their dance. Finally, the maester spoke. "Lord Stark trusts you. His children... they've never learned so quickly, been so eager for lessons. Even Sansa asks for histories now instead of songs." A pause. "Well, histories and songs."
"Children know truth when they hear it," Luke said simply. "Their minds haven't yet learned to dismiss the impossible."
"And you would teach them? These... abilities?"
"I would teach them control. Understanding. How to use their gifts without being consumed by them." Luke's voice carried the weight of personal experience. "Power without wisdom is the path to darkness."
Luwin stood slowly, joints protesting. "I should report this conversation to Lord Stark."
"Yes," Luke agreed. "You should."
The maester blinked, clearly not expecting that response. "You're not concerned?"
"Lord Stark already knows I'm more than I appear. We've had... discussions." Luke smiled slightly. "He's a man who judges by actions, not words. And my actions have been to protect and teach his children."
"And if he decides you're a danger? That these ideas you're putting in his children's heads are too dangerous?"
"Then I'll respect his wishes and leave." The lie came smoothly, though it tasted like ash. Luke would never abandon Force-sensitive children to figure out their powers alone. But Luwin didn't need to know that.
The maester gathered up several of the books, movements careful and deliberate. "I'll need to think—"
The scream ripped through the morning air like a blade through silk. Luke's head snapped toward the window. Below, orange tongues of flame licked at the sept's wooden doors, smoke billowing black against the pale northern sky.
Luwin lurched to the window beside him, knuckles white against the stone sill. "Seven hells—" The maester's robes tangled as he spun toward the door, but Luke's hand shot out, fingers closing on worn wool.
"Wait."
Luke's muscles locked, every nerve firing at once. Not from the sept. The smoke, the flames—a distraction. His consciousness expanded outward, searching, and then it hit him like a physical blow.
The Force didn't ripple. It screamed.
Luke's vision whited out. Terror crashed through him—young, female, desperate. Not from the sept. From the castle. From—
"Sansa."
He released Luwin's sleeve and moved. The library door exploded outward on its hinges.
Third floor, northwest tower. Her room. Luke hit the castle doors at full speed, the heavy oak slamming open. Servants scattered. He took the stairs three at a time, the Force singing warnings through his bones.
The terror spiked, sharp as shattered glass against his consciousness.
Almost there. Hold on.
The corridor stretched before him, Sansa's door closed at the far end. Through the wood, through stone and mortar, he felt it—predator and prey, blade and throat. No time for subtlety.
Luke thrust his hand forward. The Force answered, invisible power smashing into the door with the weight of a charging bantha. Wood splintered, hinges shrieked, the entire frame cracking as it burst inward.
Green light flooded the room as Luke's lightsaber ignited in his hand, the familiar weight settling into his palm like an old friend. The scene crystallized in an instant—Sansa pressed against the window, tears streaming down her face. A man behind her, filthy and desperate, dagger kissing her throat.
No hesitation. No doubt. The Force guided his hand in a perfect arc.
The lightsaber hummed its deadly song, plasma blade passing through flesh and bone like air. The assassin's hand separated at the wrist, cauterized instantly by the searing heat and the wet thud of severed fingers still clutching their weapon.
The man screamed, stumbling back. His remaining hand clutched the glowing stump, eyes wide with animal panic.
"Down," Luke commanded, his voice carrying the weight of the Force. The assassin's knees buckled as if cut, dropping him to the rushes.
Sansa stood frozen against the window, blue eyes enormous in her pale face. Her whole body trembled, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Alive. Terrified, but alive.
"You're safe," Luke said, keeping his voice gentle despite the adrenaline still singing through his veins. The lightsaber's hum filled the room, casting dancing shadows on the walls. "He can't hurt you now."
The assassin whimpered on the floor, cradling his cauterized stump. Luke studied him. Rough spun clothes, dirt under his remaining fingernails, the look of a man who'd kill for coin without asking questions. A hired thug, nothing more.
"Who sent you?" Luke demanded, though he suspected the answer would die with the man if he let it. The Force pressed against the assassin's mind, but found only surface thoughts—pain, terror, a hooded man, the memory of gold changing hands in shadow.
Footsteps pounded in the corridor. Guards, finally. Luke kept his lightsaber ignited, its green glow a barrier between Sansa and her would-be killer. The girl hadn't moved, hadn't made a sound since that first moment of rescue. Shock, most likely. He'd seen it before, in war—the mind's defense against horror.
"Lady Sansa," Luke said, not turning from the assassin but pitching his voice to reach her. "You need to breathe. Deep breaths. You're safe now."
The guards burst through the ruined doorway, swords drawn, then stopped short at the scene before them.
"Secure him, And fetch maester Luwin. Lady Sansa needs tending." Luke ordered.
"By the Gods," one guard breathed, staring at the assassin's cauterized stump.
Footsteps thundered up the stairs—heavier than the guards, urgent with purpose. Jon and Robb burst through the shattered doorway, both breathing hard from their sprint. Jon's hand flew to his sword hilt, grey eyes sweeping the scene, and the color drained from his face—the assassin writhing on the floor, his sister pressed against stone, and Luke standing between them with that impossible blade of emerald light.
Robb pushed past the guards, face flushed with exertion and fury. His gaze snagged on the severed hand, fingers still curled around a dagger, then tracked to the cauterized stump. The smell of charred flesh hung thick in the air. His mouth worked soundlessly, blue eyes wide as a child's seeing his first execution.
"Sansa!" Robb's voice cracked on his sister's name.
She stood rigid against the window, arms wrapped around herself, trembling like a leaf in a storm. Her blue eyes remained fixed on some middle distance, unseeing. The assassin writhed on the rushes, keening through clenched teeth as he clutched his ruined wrist.
"How..?" Jon breathed. The green glow painted his features in sharp relief, throwing shadows that made him look older, harder. Fear flickered across his face—not of the assassin, but of the man who'd stopped him. Of the weapon that hummed with barely contained power. "Master Luke, what—"
"An assassin." Luke kept his voice level, though adrenaline still sang through his veins. He clipped the lightsaber to his belt with practiced ease. "I sensed Lady Sansa's distress from the library. When I arrived, he had a blade to her throat."
Jon's gaze tracked from the severed hand—fingers still curled around the dagger—to the glowing stump, to the weapon at Luke's hip. Questions burned in those grey eyes, but his jaw tightened, swallowing them back. This wasn't the time.
"The hand," Robb said slowly, staring at the cauterized wound. "The sword... how did you..."
"SANSA!"
Lady Stark's voice cut through the room like a whip crack. She shoved past guards and sons alike, her copper hair wild, blue eyes blazing with maternal fury. Her sleeping robe billowed behind her as she crossed to her daughter in three swift strides.
Luke's thumb found the activation stud, and the lightsaber died with a soft hiss. The green glow faded, leaving only moonlight and the flickering torches from the corridor to illuminate the carnage.
"My sweet girl, my brave girl." Catelyn's hands fluttered over Sansa's face, her arms, checking for wounds. "Are you hurt? Did he—"
Sansa's composure shattered. A sob tore from her throat as she collapsed into her mother's arms, fingers clutching at Catelyn's robe like a drowning child.
"Shh, shh, you're safe now." Catelyn pulled her daughter close, one hand stroking that auburn hair. Over Sansa's shoulder, her eyes found the assassin. The softness vanished, replaced by something cold and terrible. "Who sent you?"
The assassin, still writhing, saying nothing.
"Mother." Robb's voice carried the weight of lordship. "Mater Luke saved Sansa but she is still in shock so it's best we can discuss this after she sees maester Luwin."
Catelyn's gaze snapped to Luke, taking in the strange cylinder at his belt, the calm readiness in his stance. Whatever she saw there made her hold Sansa tighter.
"I want to know who tried to have my daughter murdered." Each word dropped like ice into still water.
"He'll answer for his crimes." Robb's hand found his sword hilt, knuckles white. The boy who'd laughed in the practice yard was gone, replaced by something harder. "One way or another."
The assassin's laugh bubbled up wet and broken. "Won't…mat—ter."
Luke crouched beside the man, careful to keep distance between them. The Force whispered warnings—desperation, resignation, the bitter taste of hemlock on the tongue. Poison. Of course.
"You're dying," Luke said quietly. Not a question.
The assassin's grin revealed crooked teeth but no words followed.
"Who paid you?" Robb demanded, taking a step forward.
But Luke already felt it—the man's presence dimming in the Force like a candle guttering in the wind. Whatever poison he'd taken worked fast. His eyes rolled back, foam tinged pink with blood frothing at his lips. One convulsion, two, then stillness.
"Damn him." Robb's curse carried the frustration of youth denied answers.
Jon hadn't moved from the doorway, but Luke felt his attention like a physical weight. The bastard of Winterfell had always been observant, and even now those grey eyes missed nothing—not the weapon that cut through flesh and bone like air, not the way Luke had known exactly where to find Sansa, not the impossible speed of his arrival.
"My lady," Rodrick Cassel appeared in the doorway, breathless. "We've secured the castle. No other intruders found."
"Double the guard," Catelyn commanded without releasing Sansa. "Every door, every window. And send a raven to my lord husband immediately."
"At once, my lady."
Maester Luwin arrived through the broken doorway, the chain links clinking with each hurried step. His weathered face, usually composed in scholarly detachment, tightened at the sight before him.
"My lady." His voice carried the rasp of too many late nights bent over dusty tomes. He set his leather satchel on the bed with practiced efficiency, already reaching for Sansa's wrist. "Child, let me see."
Sansa lifted her tear-streaked face from her mother's shoulder. A thin red line marked where the blade had kissed her throat—shallow, thank the Force, but enough to make Luke's jaw clench. The maester's fingers probed gently at the wound while Catelyn held her daughter still.
"Milk of the poppy?" Catelyn asked.
"Not for this." Luwin produced a small vial of clear liquid that smelled of pine resin and something sharper. "This will sting, sweetling." Sansa bit her lips but accepted the help.
Catelyn Stark studied him with those Tully blue eyes, and he saw the war there—gratitude battling suspicion, a mother's relief against her distrust of southern strangers with impossible abilities.
"You saved my daughter's life," she said finally. The words seemed to cost her something. "For that, you have my thanks."
"I did what anyone would have done, my lady."
"No." Her voice sharpened. "You did what no one else could have done. That... weapon. The speed of your arrival. You knew she was in danger before anyone else."
Luke met her gaze steadily. "I've trained to sense danger, Lady Stark. Tonight, that training served its purpose."
"Mother," Sansa's voice came muffled against Catelyn's shoulder. "He saved me. The man, he said... he said someone paid him to..."
"Hush now." Catelyn smoothed her daughter's hair. "You're safe. That's all that matters."
But Luke caught the look she exchanged with Robb over Sansa's head. This wasn't over. Someone had paid to have the eldest Stark daughter murdered, and that someone remained free to try again.
"We should burn the body," Jon said quietly, his voice cutting through the chamber's thick silence like a blade through silk. His grey eyes fixed on the corpse, as Jon crouched beside it.
He inspected the body but the dagger caught his attention on the severed hand. The blade's rippled pattern seemed to writhe in the silver light—those telltale whorls and folds that marked it as something far more precious than castle-forged steel.
"Valyrian steel."
The recognition hit the room like a physical blow. Luke felt it ripple through the Force—Robb's sharp intake of breath, Catelyn's fingers tightening on Sansa's shoulder until her knuckles went white. Even the guards shifted uneasily, leather creaking against mail.
"Bloody Southerns," Jon cursed. His hand found his sword hilt again, an unconscious gesture. The tendons in his neck stood taut as bowstrings. "That's—"
"Later." The word cracked from Robb's lips like a whip. His jaw worked, grinding whatever else he might have said into silence. "We'll speak of this later. When there aren't so many ears."
Jon's fingers hovered above the blade, not quite touching. A muscle jumped in his cheek. "Aye. But the body needs burning. Right now. Before servants tongues start wagging." He straightened, wiping his hand on his breeches though he'd touched nothing. "A Valyrian blade in an assassin's hand... that's not a secret that keeps."
"Aye," Robb agreed. "Rennar, see it done. Quietly."
"My lord."
As guards moved to drag the corpse away, Luke felt the weight of unasked questions pressing against him like a physical thing. Robb's barely contained curiosity, Jon's sharp analysis, Catelyn's wary gratitude—all of it coiled in the air between them.
"Lady Sansa should rest," Luke said. "The mind needs time to process such shocks."
"Yes." Catelyn's arms tightened around her daughter. "Maester Luwin bring dreamwine for Sansa. Robb, post guards at her door—men you trust."
"I'll stand watch myself," Robb said immediately.
"As will I," Jon added, then caught himself, glancing at Catelyn. Old habits, old wounds.
But Catelyn only nodded, too shaken to maintain her usual coldness toward Ned's bastard. "Good, no one goes through that door."
She guided Sansa toward the door, pausing beside Luke. This close, he could see the fine lines around her eyes, the way her jaw clenched against words she wouldn't speak. Not yet.
"We will speak of this later," she said quietly. "Of what you did. What you... are."
Luke inclined his head. "As you wish, Lady Stark."
She swept from the room, Sansa clutched against her side. The guards followed, carrying the assassin's corpse between them. Soon only Luke, Robb, and Jon remained in the wreckage of Sansa's chamber.
The silence stretched taut as a bowstring.
"That weapon," Robb said finally. "The green light. I've never seen anything like it."
Luke considered his words carefully. These boys had proven themselves his students, had touched the Force and begun to understand its mysteries. But some truths carried weight beyond their years.
"There are many things in this world your maesters have forgotten," he said. "Or never knew to begin with."
"That's not an answer," Jon observed.
"No. It's not."
They stood there, three figures in a room that smelled of fear and burned flesh, while questions hung unspoken in the air. Outside, the wolves howled. The sound carried on the night wind, mournful and wild.
Tonight would bring interrogations, suspicions, demands for truth. But for now, a girl lived who should have died, and sometimes that was enough.
"Come," Luke said finally. "Your sister needs you now. The questions can wait."
Robb nodded slowly, though his eyes promised this conversation was far from over. Jon's gaze lingered on Luke's belt where the lightsaber hung, then he turned to follow his brother.
As they left, Luke remained a moment longer, staring at the dark stain on the rushes where the assassin had died. The Force whispered of shadows gathering, of moves and countermoves in a game whose rules he didn't yet understand.
Someone had tried to murder Sansa Stark. Someone with gold enough to buy death and clever enough to nearly succeed.
The wolf howled again, closer now. In the distance, storm clouds gathered on the horizon, promising rain before dawn.
----------------------------------------------------
Hours later, Robb found himself following his mother through Winterfell's corridors. Each step echoed his frustration—he should be standing guard at Sansa's door, not attending some meeting.
"Jon should be here too," he said, not for the first time.
His mother's shoulders stiffened beneath her grey wool cloak. "This is a family matter—"
"Jon is family." The words came out harder than he'd intended, but Robb didn't soften them. Not tonight. "He stays."
Catelyn turned at the threshold of Father's solar, her blue eyes sharp. For a heartbeat, Robb thought she might argue. Then her gaze shifted past him to where Jon stood, still as stone in the shadows.
"Very well." Each word crisp with anger.
The solar felt wrong without Father. His chair sat empty behind the great oak desk, maps of the North spread across its surface like accusations. Maester Luwin already waited by the hearth, grey robes pooling around his feet. Luke stood near the window, that strange weapon still hanging from his belt.
Robb claimed the chair beside the fire, gesturing Jon to the one next to him. His brother hesitated—old habits died hard—before sitting. The leather creaked under their weight.
"The assassin used the fire as a distraction," Maester Luwin began without preamble, chains clinking as he shifted. "Drew most of the guards away, far from the family quarters."
"Convenient timing," Jon murmured. "The royal party leaves, and suddenly Winterfell burns?"
Robb's jaw tightened. He'd been thinking the same thing but hearing it spoken aloud made it real. Made it worse. "You think someone traveling with the king—"
"Think about it." Jon leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His grey eyes caught the firelight, turning them almost silver. "Who gains from Sansa's death? She's betrothed to the crown prince. If she dies..."
"Another match might be made," Catelyn finished, her voice carefully neutral. She'd taken the chair across from them, back straight as a spear. "Perhaps to a house with stronger southern ties."
"Or weaker northern ones," Robb added, the pieces clicking together in his mind like cyvasse tiles. "Kill the Stark heir's sister, weaken our position. Make us look vulnerable."
"There's more," she said after a moment. "Something I haven't... Sansa came to your father after the feast. Prince Joffrey had grabbed her wrist, left bruises, when she tried to excuse herself."
The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney. Robb's hand found his sword hilt. "He hurt her?"
"Frightened her." Catelyn's jaw worked like she was chewing something bitter. "She said she felt something wrong in him. Something rotten."
"So the prince takes offense at being rejected," Maester Luwin mused, stroking his beard. "Perhaps decides to remove the slight permanently?"
"Makes sense," Robb agreed, though the words felt like swallowing glass. A prince of the realm, trying to murder his sister. "He'd have access to gold, to men who'd keep quiet. And that Valyrian steel dagger..."
Catelyn's fingers trembled as she reached into the folds of her gown, the parchment crackling against her palm. The sound seemed overloud in the solar's hushed air, sharp as breaking bone.
"There's something else." Her voice came out raw, scraped thin.
Robb watched his mother's face transform—the careful mask cracking, revealing something wild and desperate beneath. She withdrew a small scroll, the wax seal already broken, edges worn soft from handling.
"From your Aunt Lysa." She held it out like it might bite. "Hidden in a false bottom of a box she sent from the Eyrie."
Maester Luwin leaned forward, chains chiming. "Hidden, my lady?"
"Read it." Catelyn thrust the letter at him, then pressed her knuckles to her mouth. The firelight caught the sheen of tears she refused to shed.
The maester's eyes tracked across the parchment, his face draining of color with each line. His throat bobbed once, twice. "Seven save us."
"What does it say?" Robb demanded, but his mother was already speaking, the words spilling out like water through a broken dam.
"She says Jon Arryn was murdered. That the Lannisters killed him." Her laugh held no humor, brittle as old ice. "My sister, who sees shadows in every corner, who hasn't left the Eyrie in years—she sends me this, and I..."
"You believed her," Luke said quietly. Not a question.
Catelyn's chin jerked up. "She's my sister. Mad with grief, perhaps, but she wouldn't lie about this. Not about Jon's death."
"The timing," Jon murmured, and Robb could practically see the connections forming behind his brother's grey eyes. "Lord Arryn dies, the King comes North, and now someone tries to kill Sansa with a weapon that points to southern wealth."
"Don't." Catelyn's voice cracked like a whip. "Don't you dare suggest my sister orchestrated—"
"He's not." Robb kept his tone gentle, though his mind raced. "But someone might be using her grief. Feeding her suspicions."
The parchment shook in Luwin's hands. "My lady, this letter... if it's true..."
"Then they came into my home, smiled at my table, and tried to murder my children." Catelyn finished. "The royal family would have such weapons, the queen wears enough gold to buy a dozen assassins."
"It's too obvious." Jon's quiet words dropped into the conversation like a stone into a pond. Everyone turned to look at him. "Think about it. The prince makes a scene with Sansa, then immediately has her killed? With a weapon that screams wealth and southern origins?"
Catelyn's eyes narrowed to slits. "You defend him?"
"I defend logic." Jon met her gaze steadily. "Whoever did this wanted us to think exactly what we're thinking. Wanted us angry at the crown."
"You dare—"
"He's right." Luke's calm voice cut through Catelyn's building fury. He'd been so quiet Robb had almost forgotten he was there. "The pieces fit too neatly. In my experience, when evidence points so clearly in one direction, it's often meant to mislead."
Robb watched his mother's face cycle through emotions—anger, frustration, something that might have been fear. Her fingers had twisted her skirts into knots.
"Then what would you have us do?" she demanded. "My daughter nearly died tonight. Am I to simply wait?"
"Yes." Luke's response was gentle but firm. "Wait for Lord Stark's return. He'll have clearer sight than any of us, and the authority to act on whatever he discovers."
"Wait." Catelyn's laugh held no humor. "While whoever did this plots..." Catelyn's gaze fixed on the cylinder at Luke's hip, her fingers still twisted in her skirts. "That weapon you carry." The words came sharp, edged with suspicion. "What manner of blade hides in metal?"
Robb felt the air shift, curiosity crackling between them like frost on glass. Even Jon leaned forward slightly, firelight catching the interest in his grey eyes.
Luke's hand drifted to the cylinder—an unconscious gesture. The metal caught the dying fire's glow, revealing etchings too fine for any Winterfell smith. "It's called a lightsaber."
"Light... saber?" Catelyn tested the foreign words, her Southern accent making them rounder, softer than Luke's crisp pronunciation.
"A blade of pure energy." Luke unclipped it from his belt, the weight of it obvious in how he held it—reverent, careful. "The weapon used by the Jedi Order."
"Show us." Jon's voice held that quiet intensity that meant his curiosity had fully awakened.
Luke hesitated. The cylinder turned in his hands, once, twice. Then his thumb found a hidden switch.
The blade ignited with a sound like lightning trapped in glass. Green light erupted from the hilt, casting their faces in sharp relief. The fire in the hearth seemed to dim in comparison, cowed by this impossible brilliance.
Robb's stood then, slack-jawed. Beside him, Jon had gone perfectly still—that predator's stillness their training had begun to instill.
"Seven hells," Jon breathed.
The blade hummed, a living sound that raised the hair on Robb's arms. It wasn't like any weapon he'd ever seen—no metal, no weight, just that column of pure light that seemed to cut the very air.
"How?" Catelyn's voice had lost its edge, replaced by something Robb rarely heard from his mother—genuine awe.
"The crystal at its heart focuses energy into a blade that can cut through almost anything." Luke moved the weapon slowly, demonstrating. The hum changed pitch with each movement, singing its strange song. "Each one is unique to its wielder."
"Magic, then." Catelyn's fingers had loosened their death grip on her skirts.
"Not magic. Not exactly." Luke's expression grew distant, as if seeing something beyond the solar's walls. "Though I suppose the distinction matters little here."
"Who else carries such weapons?" Robb found his voice, though it came out rougher than intended.
Luke's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "In my lands? Few now. Once there were hundreds. Now..." The blade died with a sharp hiss, plunging them back into firelight's domain. "Perhaps a handful. Perhaps less."
The silence stretched, filled with unasked questions. Questions about these Jedi, about lands where light became solid, about why so few remained.
But Luke clipped the weapon back to his belt with finality, and something in his bearing warned against pressing further.
"Thank you," Catelyn said at last, and Robb heard what it cost her—thanking this stranger with his impossible weapon, trusting him with her children. "For showing us. For... for saving her."
Luke inclined his head. "I gave my word to Lord Stark. I intend to keep it."
His mother's gaze lingered on Luke at that, something unreadable in her eyes. Then she stood, skirts rustling. "I'll sleep with Sansa tonight. Robb, see that you organize the guard rotations properly."
She swept from the room, leaving silence in her wake. Maester Luwin cleared his throat.
"I'll examine the dagger more closely. Perhaps there are maker's marks, something to trace its origins."
"Do that," Robb agreed. The old man shuffled out, chains singing their metal song.
Which left him, Jon, and Luke. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the floor.
"She's right about one thing," Jon said quietly. "Whoever did this, they're still out there."
"Then we'll be ready." Robb stood, feeling older than his years. "Master Luke, that weapon of yours. Could others be made?"
Their teacher's expression was unreadable in the dim light. "Perhaps. But the items required are… unavailable."
Robb nodded, because what else could he do? "Come on," he told Jon. "Let's set the watches."
They left Luke standing by the dying fire, a strange figure in a familiar room. As they walked toward Sansa's chambers, Robb couldn't shake the feeling that everything had changed tonight. That the game they'd all been playing had suddenly revealed itself to be something darker, more dangerous.