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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Castle Black, The Wall
Robb parried Grenn's overhead strike, the clash of blunted steel ringing across Castle Black's practice yard. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he pivoted, using the Force to sense Grenn's next move before the bigger man even committed to it. The morning air bit at his exposed skin, cold enough to make his breath fog, but sweat still ran down his spine beneath his leathers.
"Keep your guard up," Robb said, deflecting another wild swing. "You telegraph every strike."
Grenn grunted, adjusting his grip on the blunted sword. Behind him, Pyp bounced on his toes, waiting his turn, while Halder leaned against the armory wall, nursing a bruised shoulder from his earlier bout. The yard stank of wet wool and smoke from the kitchens, where the morning's porridge bubbled over dying fires.
Robb let Grenn advance, reading the determination in the farm boy's stance. Three more exchanges, steel singing its harsh song, before Robb slipped inside Grenn's guard and swept his legs. The bigger recruit hit the packed snow with a thud that sent up a white cloud.
"Better," Robb offered his hand, pulling Grenn to his feet. "You lasted twice as long as yesterday."
"Still landed on my arse," Grenn muttered, but there was no real complaint in it.
Pyp stepped forward, twirling his practice blade with more enthusiasm than skill. "My turn to get humiliated by the Young Wolf."
The nickname still sat strange on Robb's shoulders. He'd heard the black brothers whispering it after he'd beaten three of their instructors in succession two days past. Not mockery, but something approaching respect.
Pyp came at him fast, all nervous energy and quick feet. The former mummer's son had speed but no foundation. Robb let him attack, studying his patterns. Through the Force, he felt Pyp's anxiety like a buzzing hive, the boy's desperate need to prove himself radiating outward.
"Stop dancing," Robb said, batting aside a thrust. "This isn't a stage."
"Easy for you to say." Pyp's next strike came too wide. "You weren't born to juggle for coppers."
Robb caught Pyp's blade with his own, twisted, and sent it spinning into the snow. Before Pyp could react, Robb had his practice sword at the smaller boy's throat.
"Dead," Robb said simply.
"Fuck me." Pyp's shoulders sagged. "Didn't even see that coming."
"You're too focused on looking impressive." Robb lowered his blade. "Fighting's not about beauty."
A harsh laugh cut across the yard. Rast pushed himself off the wall where he'd been watching, his scarred face twisted in a sneer. "Listen to the lordling, teaching us poor crows how to fight."
The Force prickled against Robb's consciousness, a greasy sensation that made his skin crawl. Something fundamentally wrong emanated from Rast, like meat left too long in the sun.
"Care to try?" Robb kept his voice neutral, though his grip tightened on the blunted sword.
Rast spat in the snow. "Why not? Someone needs to knock that highborn smirk off your face."
They circled each other, Rast's movements predatory where the others had been earnest. The older recruit had killed before coming to the Wall—rape and murder in Maidenpool, if the whispers were true. It showed in how he held his blade, not like a tool but an extension of his cruelty.
Rast attacked without warning, going for Robb's knee. A crippling blow if it landed. Robb stepped back, letting the Force guide him, feeling Rast's intentions like oil sliding across water. The man wanted to hurt him, genuinely hurt him, consequences be damned.
Their blades met with enough force to jar Robb's teeth. Rast was stronger than expected, but strength meant nothing against the Force. Robb felt the next strike coming before Rast's shoulders even shifted, was already moving to counter before the blade descended.
Three exchanges. Four. Rast's frustration mounted with each failed attack, his strikes becoming wilder, more vicious. On the fifth, Robb saw his opening. He flowed around Rast's guard like water, brought his pommel down hard on the man's wrist. Bone cracked. Rast's sword fell as he clutched his arm, cursing.
"Yield?" Robb asked.
Rast's response was to lunge at him barehanded, murder in his eyes. Robb sidestepped, grabbed Rast's broken wrist, and twisted. The man screamed, dropping to his knees in the snow.
"I said, yield."
"Fuck you, wolf boy!"
Robb released him, stepping back. Rast scrambled for his fallen sword with his good hand, but Pyp's boot came down on the blade.
"He beat you fair," Pyp said. "Leave it."
Rast surged up, backhanding Pyp across the face. The smaller boy stumbled, blood spraying from his nose. "Mind your place, gutter rat."
The Force screamed a warning. Robb moved without thinking, catching Rast's follow-up punch meant for Pyp's throat. He squeezed until he felt bones grind together.
"Touch him again," Robb said quietly, "and I'll break more than your wrist."
"You threatening a brother of the Night's Watch?" Another voice, gravelly and mean. Dirk stepped from the shadows of the armory, hand on his dagger. The Force recoiled from him too, that same wrongness magnified. "That's not very lordly."
"Neither is beating on someone half your size." Robb released Rast's hand, turning to face Dirk. "Unless you'd prefer to try me instead?"
Dirk's smile was all yellowed teeth and malice. "Been wanting to see what you're made of, Stark."
He came fast for such a wiry man, practice sword whistling through the air. But where Rast had been brutal, Dirk was cunning. Feints within feints, each strike designed to mislead. If Robb hadn't had the Force, hadn't been able to feel the truth beneath the deception, Dirk might have had him.
As it was, Robb let him think he was winning for exactly four moves. Then, when Dirk overextended on what he thought would be the killing blow, Robb grabbed his sword arm, pulled him off balance, and drove his knee into Dirk's solar plexus. The man folded, gasping like a landed fish.
"Anyone else?" Robb looked around the yard. The other black brothers suddenly found the walls very interesting.
Blood ran steadily from Pyp's nose, dripping onto his blacks. Grenn pressed a handful of snow against the wound, but it wasn't stopping.
"That's deep," Halder said, peering at the gash across Pyp's cheek where Rast's ring had caught him. "Might need stitching."
"I'll take him to Maester Aemon," Grenn said.
Aemon. Aemon Targaryen. Jon's great-great uncle, though does he know? A living piece of his brother's hidden heritage, sworn to the Night's Watch before Jon's grandfather was even born.
"I'll come with you," Robb heard himself say.
Grenn looked surprised but nodded. They left Rast and Dirk groaning in the snow, Pyp stumbling between them, leaving red drops like a trail of garnets.
The maester's chambers sat high in the tower, requiring them to climb a narrow spiral stair that reeked of old stone and bird droppings. Mormont's ravens roosted here, their black eyes following the group's ascent. One cawed as they passed, the sound echoing off the walls.
Maester Aemon's door stood slightly ajar, warm air and the scent of herbs drifting out. Grenn knocked.
"Enter."
The voice was thin as parchment, but there was strength beneath it. They found the ancient maester bent over a tome, his fingers tracing the raised letters. He didn't look up as they entered, but his head tilted, listening.
"Pyp's been hurt," Grenn announced. "Rast hit him."
"Bring him to the light."
The room was cramped but warm, a luxury at the Wall. Shelves lined every wall, stuffed with books, vials, and things Robb couldn't identify. A fire crackled in the small hearth, and a kettle steamed on a hook above it.
Aemon's fingers were gentle as they explored Pyp's face, finding the wound with practiced ease. "Not too deep, but it will scar without proper care. Grenn, the blue bottle on the third shelf. Yes, that one."
As the old maester worked, cleaning and stitching with movements so precise they seemed to defy his blindness, Robb reached out with the Force. He wanted to understand this man who shared Jon's blood, to sense what lay beneath the frail exterior.
The moment Robb's consciousness brushed against Aemon's, the maester's hands stilled.
"Interesting," Aemon said, not looking up from his work. "Young Lord Stark, you have something to say. Speak your mind."
Robb's mouth went dry. How had he known? "I... forgive me, Maester. I was curious."
"Curiosity is no sin." Aemon resumed stitching, his needle moving in steady rhythm. "Though yours seems particularly focused. What would you like to know?"
The question tumbled out before Robb could stop it. "How did you end up here? At the Wall?"
Aemon's ancient face creased in what might have been a smile. "Such an innocent question, yet so few dare ask it." His fingers tied off the last stitch with a delicate knot. "I was offered a crown once. Twice, actually. The Iron Throne was mine by rights when my brother died. But I had already sworn my vows to the Citadel, and when they offered again... well, I chose chains of a different sort."
He gestured to his maester's chain, the metals clicking softly. "My brother Aegon became king instead. Aegon the Unlikely, they called him. A good man, better than I would have been. Power... it does things to men. I feared what it might do to me."
"So you came here?" Robb couldn't hide his amazement. To choose the Wall over the Iron Throne...
"Eventually. After many years of service, when I was no longer young and my eyes began to fail. The Night's Watch needed a maester, and I needed a place where the game of thrones could not reach me." Aemon applied a salve to Pyp's wound, the sharp scent of pine and something medicinal filling the air. "There, young Pyp. Keep it clean and it will heal well."
Pyp touched the bandage gingerly. "Thank you, Maester." He glanced at Grenn. "We should go. Got duties in the kitchens."
"Go on," Aemon said. "And Pyp? What Lord Stark taught you about footwork—practice it. Your speed means nothing if you're off balance."
Pyp flushed but nodded, muttering thanks to Robb before he and Grenn departed. Their footsteps faded down the stairs, leaving Robb alone with the ancient Targaryen.
"I'm glad," Aemon said, settling into his chair with a soft grunt, "to see the next generation of Starks already helping the Watch. Your father would be proud."
"It's my duty. The Starks have always been friends to the Watch." Robb paused, choosing his words carefully. "And with what's coming from beyond the Wall, you'll need more than friends. You'll need every sword, every able body."
"Yes." Aemon's blind eyes seemed to look through him. "The cold winds are rising. I feel it in these old bones. Death marches south, and we are so few..." He trailed off, then fixed Robb with that unseeing gaze that somehow saw everything. "But that's not why you wanted to meet me, is it? Why did you really wish to speak with Aemon Targaryen?"
The question wasn't truly a question but a demand. Robb's mind raced. He'd been careless, too obvious in his interest.
"I wanted to meet another Targaryen," he admitted, the truth slipping out before wisdom could catch it.
Aemon went very still. "Another? You have met a Targaryen before?"
Robb's hand flew to his face. Gods, what had he done? Jon's secret, the thing that could see him killed if Robert ever learned...
"I..." Robb stood abruptly, the chair scraping against stone. "I should go. Lord Commander Mormont is expecting me."
"Lord Stark." Aemon's voice was gentle but insistent. "What Targaryen have you met?"
Robb was already at the door, his hand on the latch. He looked back at the old maester, this last dragon who thought himself alone in the world, and felt the Force pulling at him, demanding truth.
"You're not as alone as you think you are," Robb said quietly, and fled before he could make things worse.
He took the stairs three at a time, his boots thundering against stone. Behind him, he left an old man sitting in silence, pale fingers trembling against the arms of his chair, blind eyes wide with a hope he'd thought long dead.
Oldtown, The Reach
Jon descended the narrow stairs from his room, the old wood groaning beneath his boots. The Force prickled along his spine like cold fingers trailing down his back as he felt something was about to happen, but the feeling remained frustratingly vague. He'd learned to trust these warnings from Master Luke's training, yet this one felt different. Not danger exactly, but... change.
The common room's warmth hit him first, thick with the smell of bacon fat and fresh bread. His stomach growled in response. Through the morning crowd of merchants and travelers, he spotted his companions at a corner table. Luke sat facing the door—old habit from his stories about cantinas and Imperial ambushes—while Jory cleaned his nails with a knife. Falia gestured animatedly at something, her auburn hair catching the light from the window, and Alyn watched her with the expression of a man who'd taken a blow to the head.
Jon had barely settled into the empty seat when a serving girl appeared at his elbow, setting down a plate heaped with eggs, black sausage, and thick slices of bread still steaming from the ovens. He looked up in surprise to find Luke giving him a subtle wink before turning his attention back to Falia.
"—and the silk merchants' quarter, you should see it!" Falia's voice carried that particular excitement of someone discovering freedom for the first time. "Colors I don't even have names for. This one merchant from Yi Ti had fabric that changed shade when you moved it, like oil on water but prettier." She touched Alyn's arm briefly. "Thank you again for accompanying me. I know watching me gawk at cloth for three hours wasn't exactly thrilling."
Alyn's ears turned red. "Was no trouble, my lady."
"I'm no lady," Falia said, but her smile took any sting from the words. "Just Falia."
Jon cut into his sausage, letting their conversation wash over him. The happiness radiating from Falia through the Force felt like sitting near a hearth after coming in from the cold. She'd spent her whole life as Lord Hewett's bastard shame, treated worse than a servant. Now, free to walk markets and speak her mind... Jon understood that feeling. Or he thought he had, before learning the truth about his parentage.
What would his life have been in the south? Not as Ned Stark's bastard, but as a royal one? Would King Robert have even let him live long enough to wonder? The thought of spending his childhood in King's Landing, surrounded by Lannisters and their ilk, made bile rise in his throat. The Starks had given him everything—family, purpose, love despite Lady Stark's… instances. Whatever his blood, Winterfell was home.
"But here's the interesting part," Falia said, her tone shifting from delight to gossip. "The merchants were all talking about Stannis Baratheon. Apparently, he's vanished from court entirely. Just up and sailed to Dragonstone without a word to anyone, not even his brother the king."
Jory looked up from his knife. "Stannis never struck me as one for court life anyway. Probably got tired of watching Robert drink himself stupid."
"Perhaps, but the timing..." Falia leaned forward conspiratorially. "The Tyrells are throwing this massive tourney for Renly Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell's betrothal, except now they're rushing to make it a wedding instead. And Lord Mace is bringing half the Reach's nobility, but Lord Leyton Hightower won't even attend his own granddaughter's wedding. Only his heir, Baelor, will represent House Hightower."
"Someone's in a hurry to see this marriage consummated," Jory said with a knowing grin.
Falia's response made Jon nearly choke on his eggs. "From what I overheard when my father entertained other Reach lords, it might not be Lord Renly who's eager. They say he doesn't have a preference for women, if you understand my meaning."
Jory's knife stopped moving. Alyn's mouth fell open. Luke just continued eating his porridge, apparently unbothered by the implications. Jon felt heat rise to his face but squashed it, not my problem.
"The merchants had more news," Falia continued, clearly enjoying their reactions. "About the dragon princess."
Jon's head snapped up so fast his neck cracked.
"Daenerys Targaryen. She ran away from her wedding in Pentos. Fled in the night with Ser Jorah Mormont, of all people. No one knows where she went, and her brother, the one they call the Beggar Prince—he's vanished too. Some say he's dead, others that he's hunting her."
The eggs lost their flavor in Jon's mouth. Daenerys Targaryen. His… sire's sister. His aunt, though she was younger than him if the stories were true. His family, scattered across the Narrow Sea while he sat here eating breakfast, pretending to be Torrhen Karstark.
His hands clenched around his knife and fork. The Force responded to his emotion, making the pitcher of ale on their table tremble slightly. Luke's hand moved casually, steadying it before anyone noticed.
"Time we left for the Citadel," Luke said, his tone mild but his eyes finding Jon's with understanding. "We have a full day ahead."
Jon nodded stiffly, forcing himself to finish the last of his bread. Jory and Luke rose, checking their sword belts out of habit. As they moved toward the door, Luke fell into step beside Jon.
"We'll find them," Luke whispered, his voice barely audible. "Your family. After we stop what's coming from beyond the Wall. But we need to focus on the task at hand."
Jon wanted to argue, wanted to demand they sail for Pentos immediately, but he knew Master Luke was right. The dead were rising. His siblings—his cousins—needed him. The realm needs to prepare. He gave a reluctant nod.
The morning sun nearly blinded him as they stepped outside. Jon raised a hand to shield his eyes, then froze. An elaborate carriage waited at the inn's entrance, all polished wood and brass fittings, with the Hightower sigil painted on its doors.
The carriage door opened. Alleras stepped out first, dressed in the same acolyte robes from yesterday. Behind her…him, Jon reminded himself, came a short, thick man with the heaviest chain Jon had ever seen on a maester. But what caught Jon's attention were the strange glass circles perched on the man's nose, held in place by a wire frame. They made his eyes appear larger, like a fish peering through clear ice.
Jon and Jory shifted instinctively into defensive stances, but Master Luke remained perfectly still, radiating calm through the Force.
The maester waddled toward them with surprising speed for his girth. "Torrhen Karstark, I presume?" His voice was deep and rough, like stones grinding together. "I am Archmaester Marwyn, though most call me Marwyn the Mage, usually while making signs against evil." He chuckled at his own words.
"Well met, Archmaester," Jon replied, slipping into his role. "We were just on our way to see you at the Citadel. You didn't need to trouble yourself coming here."
Marwyn laughed, a sound like boulders tumbling down a mountain. "Oh, it's no trouble at all, young lord. Though I'm not exactly here to escort you to the Citadel." His gaze shifted to Luke, and something passed between them that Jon couldn't read.
"Then why are you here?" Jon asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.
Marwyn continued staring at Luke, who stared back with that unsettling stillness he sometimes adopted. The silence stretched until Alleras cleared her throat and elbowed the archmaester in his substantial gut.
"Ah, yes." Marwyn blinked as if waking from a dream. "There's a condition to your access to the Citadel archives. Lord Leyton Hightower wishes to meet you."
Jon's stomach dropped. Had word of Oakenshield reached here already? Lord Hewett would have sent ravens about his bastard daughter's escape, about the mysterious sorcerer who'd collapsed a dock with his hand.
"I'm certain Lord Leyton has better uses for his time," Jon said smoothly. "I am merely a scholar seeking knowledge about the North's history. Nothing that would interest the Lord Hightower."
Marwyn's smile widened. "Oh, I doubt that very much, Lord Torrhen. I doubt that very much indeed." He glanced at Luke again. "But you see, Lord Leyton is the one who secured permission for you to access our archives. The Seneschal wasn't inclined to allow strangers into our halls, particularly from my asking."
Luke raised his hand slightly, a gesture Jon had seen him use before. "You don't need Lord Leyton's permission. You'll take us to the archives yourself."
The Force rippled outward from Luke, that subtle push that could convince weak minds to see things differently. Jon had watched it work on guards, merchants, even knights.
Marwyn stood there, unaffected.
The silence stretched. A dog barked somewhere. A cart rolled past, wheels creaking. Alleras coughed.
"Umm..." Marwyn finally said, those enlarged eyes blinking behind his strange glass circles. "As I was saying, Lord Leyton arranged your access. I don't have the authority to override the Seneschal's decision. If you want into the archives, you'll need to meet with Lord Leyton." He leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. "Particularly if you want access to the restricted sections, this is the only way you'll find what you're looking for. What's coming from the North... the old books remember."
Jon and Luke exchanged glances. Through their training bond, Jon felt Luke's curiosity warring with caution. Finally, Jon turned back to Marwyn and nodded.
"Lead the way, Archmaester."
As they followed Marwyn and Alleras toward the carriage, Jon whispered, "Master..."
"Let's see where this leads," Luke replied quietly. "There's more to this Lord Leyton than expected. But don't worry, I'm here if anything happens."
Jon sighed. Nothing was ever simple.
The carriage ride through Oldtown's streets gave Jon time to study Marwyn more closely. The archmaester hummed tunelessly, those glass circles catching the light as he turned his head to peer at various landmarks. Alleras sat silent, dark eyes watchful.
The Hightower loomed larger with each turn, until it blocked out half the sky. Jon had to crane his neck to see its top, wreathed in clouds. The base was ancient black stone, fused together like the foundation of Storm's End, while the upper levels were more recent construction, though still older than Winterfell.
They didn't enter through the main gates. Instead, Marwyn directed the driver to a small door set into the base, nearly invisible unless you knew where to look. Inside, a narrow stair spiraled upward into darkness.
Marwyn paused at the base of the spiral stair, turning to Jory. "Best you wait here, lad. Lord Leyton only requested for two new visitors."
Jon caught Jory's questioning look and gave a slight nod. The guard's jaw tightened—he'd sworn to Ned Stark to protect Jon, after all—but he stepped back, hand resting on his sword pommel.
"I'll be right here, m'lord," Jory said, the formal address carrying weight. His Northern accent thickened with displeasure. "These stairs look treacherous enough without me clanking about in mail."
Marwyn's laugh echoed off stone. "Wise man. We've had knights try to climb in full plate. Found one wedged between levels once, couldn't go up or down. Had to butter him like a stuck pig."
Alleras made a soft sound that might have been amusement. "That was Ser Moryn. Still won't eat butter to this day."
"Lord Leyton hasn't descended from the tower in over a decade," Marwyn explained as they climbed. "He prefers his solitude, studying the heavens and consulting his books."
Jon caught Alleras's eye as they approached the narrow stair. "You're coming with us?"
Alleras's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Wouldn't miss this for the world." His Dornish accent thickened slightly, vowels stretching. "Besides, someone needs to make sure Maester Marwyn doesn't forget which door leads where. Last visit ended up in the rookery. Took me some time to wash the bird shit from his hair."
The spiral stairs were barely wide enough for one person. Jon's shoulder scraped against rough stone with each turn, and the air grew colder as they climbed, despite the summer heat outside. Behind him, Alleras's soft footfalls barely whispered against the steps, like a hunter's tread, or an assassin's.
The darkness pressed close, broken only by occasional arrow slits that let in threads of dusty light. Through one, Jon glimpsed the city spreading below like a child's toy model.
"Fair warning," Alleras murmured, close enough that Jon could smell the faint trace of wine on his breath. "Lord Leyton can be quite… particular."
"Particular how?" Jon asked, the words coming out sharper than intended.
With that smile again, Alleras responded. "You'll see."
Jon's jaw tightened. "Your smile isn't exactly filling me with confidence."
"Good." Alleras's voice carried a thread of amusement. "Confidence makes men stupid. Lord Leyton prefers his visitors properly nervous."
Jon's legs burned by the time they reached a landing several hundred steps up. Marwyn, despite his girth, seemed barely winded. Luke moved with that easy grace that suggested he could climb for hours more.
The door opened into a circular chamber filled with more books than Jon had ever seen outside the Winterfell library. They covered every wall, reached the vaulted ceiling, and stood in precarious stacks on every surface.
A man stood at the far window, tall and lean despite his advanced age, silver hair falling to his shoulders. He turned as they entered, and Jon saw eyes the color of spring grass, sharp and knowing.
"Lord Leyton," Marwyn said with a slight bow. "May I present Torrhen Karstark and his companion..."
"Luke Skywalker," Luke said, offering no false name.
Jon couldn't hide his surprise at Luke. What is Master doing?! The Force thrummed against his consciousness as he tried desperately to reach him, to warn into using their agreed-upon false names.
"Please, Lord Snow." The old lord's green eyes sparkled with something between amusement and calculation. "There's no need for false pretenses between friends. I would have loved to see those direwolves of yours. Ghost and Amidala, was it?"
Shit. Blood roared in his ears, drowning out everything except the rapid thud of his own heartbeat. He looked desperately around the chamber—Marwyn's face split in a knowing grin, Alleras watching with those dark eyes that saw too much, and Luke... Luke stood perfectly still, one eyebrow raised in what might have been surprise or approval.
Jon turned back to Lord Leyton, forcing his voice steady despite the panic clawing at his throat. "My lord, I fear you're mistaken. I'm not—"
The words died as warmth brushed against his left side. A woman stood there, though Jon would swear on the old gods she hadn't been there a heartbeat ago. She moved with liquid grace, as her hair fell in silver waves past her waist.
She looked at Luke with an expression of profound fascination, as if he were a puzzle she'd been trying to solve for centuries. "The walker of stars," she breathed, her voice carrying harmonics that made Jon's teeth ache. "The son of suns, the herald of balance." She tilted her head, studying Luke as if she found the most intreat book to read. "It is my very great pleasure to meet you at last."
Master Luke's entire body had shifted into a combat stance so subtle Jon only recognized it from their training. Every muscle coiled, ready to spring. The Force around him felt suddenly sharp, dangerous, like the air before lightning strikes.
"And you are?" Luke's voice carried that particular flatness Jon had learned meant extreme caution.
But the woman had already turned away, dismissing the most dangerous man Jon knew as if he were furniture. Her star-filled gaze fixed on Jon, and her smile bloomed wider, showing teeth that gleamed like pearls.
"And you." She glided closer, close enough that Jon could smell her perfume. "It is my great honor to meet you, my Prince."
The floor seemed to tilt beneath Jon's boots.. His knees wanted to buckle. This couldn't be happening. They'd been so careful.
"What?" The word burst from Jon's throat, raw and strangled, while Luke's sharper "What?" cut through the air like a blade. Marwyn's deeper rumble joined theirs, overlapping with Alleras's higher pitch, all four voices colliding in a discordant chorus of disbelief.
Lord Leyton's own "What?" came last, soft and wondering, as if he'd just watched the sun rise in the west.
The woman's laughter rippled through the chamber like silver bells, like breaking glass, like the sound dragons might make if they could laugh. She pressed one delicate hand to her chest in mock surprise, those star-filled eyes dancing with mirth.
"Oh my," she said, looking between their stunned faces with obvious delight. "Have I said something unexpected?"