Discimer: This is a work of fiction and all rights for character, plots and settings belong to GRRM and George Lucas/Disney. I have no ownership.A/N: Enjoy the chapter! :D

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  Year 299 AC/8 ABY

  Fist of The First Men, Beyond The Wall

  The wind returned to the Fist of the First Men, but it was not the same wind that had howled before the battle. That gale had been a living thing, full of fury and bite. This new wind was thin and brittle. It whistled through the piles of motionless corpses like a breath rattling in a dying throat.

  Robb Stark stood at the edge of the precipice, staring down into the swirling grey mist where the White Walker had vanished. His chest heaved. Every muscle in his body trembled from the sudden, violent withdrawal of the power he had channeled. He felt hollowed out. Scraped clean.

  The silence on the summit was absolute. Moments ago, the air had been filled with the shrieks of the dead and the roar of giants. Now, the only sound was the snap of banners in the thin wind and the groans of the wounded.

  The wights y in heaps. The blue fire was gone from their eyes.

  It looked like a victory.

  But Robb could still feel the smile.

  It burned in his mind, cold and mocking. The creature had not fallen in defeat. It had fallen because it had seen what it came to see. It had tasted Robb’s power, measured his strength, and found him… of interest.

  It was a scout, Robb realized, the thought settling in his gut like a stone. Just a scout.

  He turned slowly away from the edge.

  The Free Folk were staring at him.

  People who had jeered at him hours ago now looked at him with wide, fearful eyes. They clutched their weapons, unsure whether to cheer or run. Even the giants, Wun Wun and the others who had survived, leaned on their tree-trunk clubs and watched the small human who had thrown a demon of ice into the void.

  Tormund Giantsbane broke the silence. The big man limped forward, his white beard matted with blood that was not his own. He looked at the frozen patch of rock where Robb had anchored the Walker, then at Robb.

  He spped a heavy hand on Robb’s shoulder. It was meant to be a congratutory blow, but there was a hesitation in it.

  "Har!" Tormund said, the ugh sounding forced. "Is that a wolf in there, or did a god crawl up your arse, boy? You threw him like a sack of flour! I’ve seen giants throw horses that didn't fly that far."

  He looked around at the gathered chieftains, his voice rising, trying to fill the uncomfortable quiet. "Maybe we should start praying to you, eh? The King of Winter come again!"

  A murmur went through the crowd. Hope was a dangerous thing, and Robb could feel it sparking in the Force—desperate, frantic hope that sought a savior. They wanted him to be a god. They wanted to believe that he could wave his hand and make the winter go away.

  "He ain't no god, Tormund."

  A spearwife stepped forward from the line of fighters. She was small, with hair the color of fme that stood out starkly against the white snow. She was wiping her weirwood spear with a rag, her face set in a grim line. She looked Robb up and down, her eyes lingering on the gash on his cheek where the shard of his own sword had cut him.

  "Gods don't bleed," she said ftly. "And he's bleeding. Look at him. He's shaking like a leaf in a storm."

  She tossed the rag aside and met Robb’s gaze. There was no awe in her eyes, only a hard, practical respect. "He's just a man who knows how to fight the cold. Kissed by fire, maybe. Touched by something else, sure. But a man all the same."

  Tormund snorted, though the reverence in his eyes dimmed to something more manageable. "Always ruining the fun, Ygritte. Can’t let the boy have his moment?"

  Ygritte. Robb nodded to the woman, grateful. He did not want their worship. Worship made men blind. He needed them to see.

  "She's right," Robb said, his voice raspy. He cleared his throat and spoke louder, addressing the staring crowd. "Gods aren't helping us survive here. If they were, the wind wouldn't be so cold. We need movement. Not prayers."

  He walked past Tormund, moving toward the center of the ruins where Mance Rayder and Benjen stood. Grey Wind limped at his side, the direwolf favoring his left hind leg but refusing to leave Robb’s shadow.

  "Mance," Robb said. "Uncle. Gather the chiefs. Now."

  Mance Rayder looked at Robb. The bard-king’s face was pale, his usual easy charm stripped away by the horror of the st hour. He nodded once.

  Ten minutes ter, the leadership of the Free Folk stood in a tight circle near the dead embers of the central fire. Styr of Thenn, the Weeper, Harma, Varamyr, and the cn leaders. They looked battered. They looked terrified.

  "We won," the Great Walrus rumbled, clutching his tusks. "They fell. The white shadows ran."

  "They didn't run," Robb said. He looked at each of them in turn, ensuring they understood. "That wasn't an attack. It was a test."

  "A test?" Harma Dogshead spat. "I lost fifty good spears. That felt like a battle to me."

  "If it was a battle, the Walker wouldn't have been alone," Robb said. "He came to mark us. He came to mark me."

  He pointed to the north, into the darkness of the Haunted Forest.

  "More are coming. The one I fought... he smiled before he fell. He knows we're here. He knows our strength. And now he knows that I can hurt them."

  "Then we fight them again!" The Weeper shouted, waving his scythe. "We hold the Fist! It is a strong position!"

  "It is a tomb," Benjen Stark said, his voice grim. He held his arm, which had been wrenched in the fighting. "The ringwall held because they attacked from one side. If they come in force, they will surround us. They will starve us out or freeze us out. We cannot stay here."

  Mance Rayder rubbed his temples. "The First Ranger is right. We are exposed. But moving... gods, Stark. You saw the valley. We have thousands of mouths to feed. Children. Old women. Mammoths. We move like a gcier."

  Mance gestured helplessly at the vast encampment below. "The Walkers move like the wind. If we run for the Wall now, with the entire host, they will catch our rear guard within a day. They will chew us up mile by mile. By the time the van reaches the Milkwater Bridge, the tail will be dead."

  Panic flickered in the eyes of the chieftains. They were warriors, used to raiding and skirmishing. They were not generals. They understood survival, but they did not understand war on this scale.

  "We will be butchered!" Varamyr Sixskins whined. The skinchanger was shivering violently, his eyes darting around the shadows.

  "Then we don't give them a different target," Robb said.

  He knelt in the snow. Using the broken hilt of his sword, he drew a crude map. A long line for the Wall. A curve for the Milkwater. A jagged line for the Frostfangs.

  "The Wall is the only anvil we have," Robb said, looking up at them. "It is the only thing that can stop them. You have to get behind it."

  "The crows will never open the gates," Styr said, his voice devoid of emotion. "They will shoot us from the top while the dead take us from behind."

  "They will open them," Robb said.

  "Why?" Harma sneered. "Because you ask nicely? Even if you are a Stark, the bck brothers obey the Old Bear. And the Old Bear hates wildlings."

  "The Old Bear is a pragmatist," Benjen cut in. The First Ranger stepped into the center of the circle. He looked every inch a Stark, hard and unyielding as the frozen earth. "And I am the First Ranger. I command the respect of the garrison at the Shadow Tower. I command respect at Castle Bck."

  Benjen looked at Mance. "I will be at the front of the column. I will ride to the gate. I will order them to open it. If Denys Mallister refuses, I will open it myself."

  "And if they shoot you?" Mance asked quietly.

  "Then they shoot a brother of the Night's Watch," Benjen said. "And they damn themselves."

  He turned to the chiefs. "We march now. Tonight. No sleep. No stopping for food. We light no fires. We move until our feet bleed, and then we crawl. We get every living soul to the Shadow Tower bridge."

  "It won't matter," Mance said, shaking his head. "Even marching day and night, we are too slow. The Walkers are faster. They will catch us."

  "Not if they aren't chasing you," Robb said.

  The circle went quiet.

  Robb stood up. He felt the cold wind biting at his exposed face, but the heat inside him—the Force, the Stark blood, the sheer stubborn will—burned hotter.

  "They want me," Robb stated. It wasn't a boast. It was a tactical fact. "I am a beacon to them. To them, I must look like a bonfire in a dark room."

  He looked toward the west.

  "If I stay with the main host, I draw them right to the children. I draw them to the slowest part of your column."

  He traced a line on the snow map, breaking away from the main group and heading west, into the jagged peaks.

  "I have to peel off," Robb said. "I have to draw them away."

  "You mean to act as bait," Smalljon Umber rumbled. The big man stepped forward, his face thunderous. "You mean to ride out there alone and let them hunt you."

  "Not alone," Robb said, looking at Grey Wind. "But yes. Bait."

  "No." Benjen shook his head violently. "Absolutely not. I am not letting you ride into the Frostfangs to be hunted by white shadows."

  "You have to lead the host, Uncle," Robb said gently. "You are the only one the Watch will listen to. If Mance rides up to the Shadow Tower, they will loose arrows. If I ride up, they might hesitate, but they don't know me. They know you. You are Benjen Stark, First Ranger. You are the key to the gate."

  Benjen opened his mouth to argue, but the logic cmped it shut. He looked at Robb, anguish warring with duty in his eyes. He knew Robb was right. And he hated it.

  "You promised to guard the realms of men," Robb pressed. "This is how you do it."

  Benjen closed his eyes and let out a long, ragged breath. "Damn you, Robb. You have too much of your father in you."

  "I'm coming with you," the Smalljon announced. He smmed the pommel of his greatsword against his palm. "The Greatjon would skin me alive and wear me as a cloak if I let you die alone in the snow. Where the Stark goes, the Umber follows."

  Robb looked at the giant of a man. He needed speed, and the Smalljon was heavy, but he was also the strongest fighter Robb had ever seen. And he would not be dissuaded.

  "Agreed," Robb said.

  "To draw them off," Styr of Thenn spoke up, his voice grinding like stones, "you must head for the Bay of Ice. The Milkwater is the obvious path. If you go west, into the high passes, you force them to choose. They cannot follow both groups with their main strength."

  Styr pointed a gloved finger at the jagged line of mountains on the horizon.

  "But the terrain is treacherous. The Skirling Pass is a maze of ice and deadfalls. The Thenns rule the Frostfangs. We know the paths. I know the secret ways that the crows have never seen. I will guide you."

  "No," a voice said.

  Sigorn, Styr’s son, stepped out from behind his father. He was younger, leaner, but he had the same copper eyes and the same impcable face. He pced a hand on his father’s chest armor.

  "The Thenns need their Magnar," Sigorn said. "We are marching into the nds of the kneelers. If the Free Folk panic, if the cns turn on each other, they need you to hold them. You are the iron that binds this alliance, Father."

  Styr looked at his son. For a moment, the Magnar’s face remained a mask. Then, a flicker of pride showed in his eyes.

  "I know the Frostfangs just as well, Father," Sigorn continued. "And I am faster."

  Styr hesitated. He looked at the vast, chaotic camp below, then at Robb, and finally at his son. He nodded once.

  "Go," Styr said. "Die well, my son."

  "I do not intend to die," Sigorn said simply. He moved to stand beside Robb.

  "You need eyes," Mance Rayder said. He looked around the circle and his gaze nded on Varamyr. The skinchanger tried to shrink back into the shadows of his snow bear, but there was nowhere to hide.

  "Varamyr," Mance said.

  "No," Varamyr squeaked. "No, Mance. Don't make me. You know what they are. You know what they do to the beasts. I can't... I can't go near them."

  "They need to know how close the white shadows are," Mance said, his voice hard. "We need to know if they take the bait. You have the eagle and you are the best warg we have."

  Mance grabbed Varamyr by the front of his furs and hauled him forward. "You are going with the Stark. You will watch his back. You will watch the trail. And if you run, I will hunt you down myself."

  Varamyr trembled, sweat beading on his pale forehead despite the cold. He looked at Robb with terrified resentment, but he nodded weakly.

  "Fine," Varamyr whispered. "Fine."

  Robb looked at his small, motley company. A giant Northman, a Thenn prince, a terrified warg, and a direwolf.

  "Here is the route," Robb said, kneeling again to modify the map. "We break off here, at the Fist. We head through the Skirling Pass. It will be brutal and we will have to move fast. Once we reach the Bay of Ice, we will run south along the coast."

  He looked up at Benjen.

  "Uncle, send the fastest runners you have. Now. Before the main column moves. Send them sprinting to the Shadow Tower. Tell Denys Mallister to send a ship. Any ship. Tell them to sail north along the coast and look for fires on the Frozen Shore."

  Robb stood, wiping the snow from his hands.

  "Pick us up at the Frozen Shore. If we aren't there..." Robb paused. He felt the weight of the Force, the dark premonition that hung over him. "It means they caught us."

  "You are coming back, there is no other option." Benjen replied. He gripped Robb’s shoulder, his fingers digging into the wool and mail. His eyes were wet, shining in the gloom. "You sound like a Lord Commander, Robb. Ned... Ned would be terrified. And proud."

  "Go," Robb said softly. "Get them to the Wall."

  "Come back alive, Robb," Benjen whispered, his voice cracking. "Or I can never face your father again."

  "I'll see you on the other side of the Wall," Robb promised. He didn't know if it was a lie.

  He turned to his horse. The Smalljon was already mounted, his greatsword strapped across his back. Sigorn was checking the girth of his garron, his face impassive. Varamyr was muttering to his shadowcat, looking like a man marching to the gallows.

  Robb swung into the saddle. He felt the ache in his muscles, the sting of the cut on his cheek. But beneath it, the Force hummed, a warning in the dark.

  They are moving.

  He looked north. The shadows at the base of the hill were shifting again. The mist was beginning to reform, swirling like oil in water.

  "Ride!" Robb shouted.

  He spurred his horse. The decoy group peeled away from the main column, thundering down the western slope of the Fist, plunging into the darkness of the trees.

  Behind them, the massive, lumbering beast of the Free Folk army began to stir, a slow, desperate migration toward salvation.

  But Robb did not look back. He fixed his eyes on the jagged teeth of the Frostfangs ahead. He opened his mind to the cold, to the dark, and to the enemy that hunted him.

  Come and get me, he thought, projecting it as loud as he could into the void.

  And from the darkness behind him, something cold and hungry answered.

  See you soon.

  Near Bitterbridge, The Reach

  The Reach army encampment sprawled across the meadows east of Bitterbridge like a bloom of canvas fungi, colorful and chaotic. Eighty thousand men created a city of their own necessity, a byrinth of silk pavilions and cookfires that stretched to the horizon. The air hung heavy and sweet, cloying with the scent of roasting pork, horse manure, and the crushing perfume of summer wildflowers trampled into the mud.

  Luke leaned against the rough-hewn railing of the makeshift practice ring, his arms crossed over his chest. He kept his presence muted in the Force, a small stone in a rushing river, letting the waves of ambition and drunkenness wash past him.

  Inside the ring, Jon moved with the rhythmic predictability of a tide.

  The young man was shirtless, sweat gleaming on his pale skin. He held a blunted tourney sword, moving with a ferocity that seemed to blur the edges of his silhouette. He didn't step; he flowed. He didn't strike; he unleashed. The bde didn't weave a shield; it painted a storm of kinetic energy, erratic and unpredictable. Vaapad.

  Jon was not fighting an opponent. He was fighting the noise in his own head. He was channeling his recent frustration into the steel, letting the aggression flow through him without consuming him. He had spent those days making himself scarce, haunting the periphery of the camp like a ghost to avoid the high lords and their prying eyes—specifically the eyes of the Tyrells.

  He sshed through the air, a conduit of controlled chaos, burning away the tension of being a bastard in a court of kings.

  The crowd at the rail parted. It wasn't a polite separation but a forceful one, bodies shoved aside by authority.

  Ser Loras Tyrell stepped into the clear space.

  The Knight of Flowers wore no armor today, only supple dueling leathers of green and gold that clung to him like a second skin. He held two training swords, their weights testing his wrists. He looked less like the tourney darling who handed out roses and more like a predator who had been denied a meal.

  Jon stopped his form. He lowered his bde to a neutral guard, his chest heaving slightly, not from exertion but from the sudden shift in focus.

  "You're hard to find, Snow," Loras said. His voice carried over the murmurs of the gathering spectators. "My sister thinks you're shy. I think you're hiding."

  Jon wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'm training."

  "In the lists, you pulled your nce." Loras tossed one of the training swords onto the packed earth at Jon's feet. It nded with a dull thud. "You gave me the victory. You mocked me with it."

  "I gave you the prize," Jon said calmly. "There is a difference."

  "Today, I want to know if you could have taken it." Loras stepped into the ring. He moved with a fluid, dangerous grace. "No horses. No nces. Just sword and skill. To the yield."

  The challenge hung in the humid air. Luke watched Jon's internal state through the Force. There was no spike of anger, no fre of the ego that would have consumed the boy who left Winterfell months ago. There was only assessment.

  Jon nodded once. "To the yield."

  As they began to circle, the crowd swelling with anticipation, a man in the blue-and-gold livery of a Highgarden steward materialized at Luke’s elbow. The man cleared his throat with officious importance.

  "Lady Olenna requests the pleasure of your company, Ser Skywalker," the steward said. "She insists."

  Luke did not look away from the ring. He watched Jon settle into the opening stance of Soresu, his feet rooted, his bde held close to his body. The boy was finding the Eye of the Storm.

  "Now?" Luke asked.

  "Immediately, ser."

  Luke sighed. He looked at Jon, projecting a sense of calm across the short distance between them.

  "Don't hurt him too bad, Jon," Luke called out.

  Jon’s lips quirked in the barest hint of a smile, his eyes never leaving Loras.

  Luke turned and followed the steward up the gentle rise toward the center of the camp. Behind him, the first csh of steel rang out, sharp and clear as a bell.

  The pavilion of the Queen of Thorns was a world apart.

  While the camp outside sweltered in the summer heat, the interior of Olenna Tyrell’s tent was cool and dim. Heavy Myrish carpets yered the ground, silencing footsteps. The walls were lined with thick silk that muffled the roar of the army into a distant, oceanic hum. It smelled of lemon water and old paper.

  Lady Olenna sat in a high-backed chair of carved oak, a tiny, withered woman who occupied the space with the gravity of a supernova. She watched Luke enter with eyes that were bright, hard, and utterly devoid of warmth.

  "You move like a dancer, Ser Luke," she said before he had even bowed. "But you are forging that boy into a weapon. A very expensive weapon."

  Luke stopped in the center of the carpet. He did not bow low. He offered a respectful inclination of his head, nothing more. "I do not charge for my services, my dy."

  "Time is coin. Skill is coin." Olenna gestured with a withered hand, dismissing his humility. "Why does a Great Lord's bastard need to know how to kill three men in the time it takes to blink? I watched him in the joust, he chose to not win. And I have watched you. That is not the fighting style of a castle master-at-arms or even the water dancing those boorish Braavosi preen about. It is something else."

  "Potential appears where it wills, not where titles dictate," Luke replied. He kept his hands csped loosely before him, his demeanor serene. "Jon has a discipline that many highborn lords ck."

  "Discipline." Olenna tasted the word as if it were a grape that might be sour. "A convenient word if there was any."

  She leaned forward, the heavy gold chain around her neck clinking softly.

  "Do you wish to know what my sources sing about your… liege lord? A curious song from Braavos, Ser Luke. They say Lord Stark left the city in quite a hurry. And he wasn't alone. He left with a silver-haired girl who should be in Pentos."

  Luke remained silent. He breathed evenly, allowing the Force to flow through him, shielding his thoughts. He offered her nothing—no flicker of surprise, no twitch of recognition.

  Olenna’s eyes narrowed. She was hunting for a reaction, and his stillness annoyed her.

  "And now here you are," she continued, her voice sharpening. "Guarding a boy who looks more like a Stark than the Starks, yet my granddaughter finds him... compelling. Margaery has a taste for things out of the ordinary, unfortunately. She thinks he is a brooding wolf."

  She paused, letting the silence stretch, heavy and pregnant.

  "I wonder, Ser Luke, is it the Wolf blood she smells? Or something more dangerous?"

  Outside, the roar of the crowd swelled suddenly, a massive, collective gasp that vibrated through the tent poles.

  Luke tilted his head toward the sound. "It seems your grandson is putting on a show."

  "It seems he is," Olenna said, annoyed by the interruption. "You evade my questions with silence. It is a tiresome trick."

  "I evade nothing, Lady Olenna. I simply do not answer questions that are not mine to answer."

  "And what is yours to answer?"

  "The training," Luke said. "Everything else belongs to the will of… the gods."

  Another roar from outside, louder this time. It was the sound of disbelief.

  In the ring, Luke knew exactly what was happening without seeing it. Loras was attacking with the fury of a storm, a whirlwind of steel and aggression. He was fast, brilliant, the finest sword in the Reach. But Jon was not meeting him force for force. Jon was water. He was redirecting, parrying, moving his bde inches to intercept strikes that should have nded. He was conserving energy while Loras burned his away.

  "If you must know more about Jon, he is learning to control his fear," Luke said softly. "Fear leads to mistakes. Patience leads to victory."

  Olenna studied him. She looked at his simple clothes, the strange cylinder on his belt, the gloved right hand that never seemed to fidget.

  "And you?" she asked sharply. "You don't fear kings. You don't fear armies. You sit in my tent and you don't even fear me."

  "I respect you, my dy," Luke said. "But fear is a choice."

  "Is it?" Olenna let out a dry, rattling ugh. "Wait until winter comes, Ser Luke. Wait until you are old and your bones ache and you realize that all your power cannot stop the turning of the world. Then tell me fear is a choice."

  Outside, the rhythm of the crowd changed. The chaotic roaring coalesced into a rhythmic chant.

  SNOW. SNOW. SNOW.

  "Well," Olenna said, sitting back in her chair. "It seems the question is settled."

  Luke felt the victory in the Force. Jon had not struck a winning blow. He had simply allowed Loras to defeat himself. The Knight of Flowers had exhausted his strength against an unbreakable wall, and Jon had remained standing. It was the purest application of Form III.

  "Are you disappointed with the outcome, my dy?" Luke said.

  "No," Olenna murmured. "I cannot say I am."

  Then the world broke.

  It was not a sound. It was a psychic fracture, a tectonic pte shifting in the ndscape of the Force.

  CRACK.

  It hit Luke with the concussive force of a thermal detonator. The air in the tent vanished. The light turned grey.

  For a heartbeat, Luke was not in the Reach. He was not in the summer warmth.

  He was standing on a precipice of ice, wind screaming in his ears. He felt a surge of raw, unrefined power—Robb. It was a fre of white-hot desperate energy, a push against gravity. Luke felt the physical strain of the telekinetic heave.

  Then, the void.

  He watched as a shadow of pure ice was hurled backward. He felt the sickening lurch of the fall. But as the darkness fell into the abyss, it didn't scream. It stared.

  Luke felt the connection snap into pce. When Robb had reached out to crush the enemy, he had touched the infinite cold behind it. He hadn't just won a fight; he had touched the dark side’s frozen heart. And it had noticed him.

  Found you.

  The vision smmed shut, leaving Luke gasping in the sudden return of the heat.

  His right hand, his mechanical hand, had convulsed.

  The heavy silver wine cup he had been holding was crushed ft. Wine sprayed across the polished table like arterial blood, dark and staining. The metal of the cup groaned as it was compacted into a shapeless lump of bullion.

  Luke stumbled. He caught the edge of the table with his left hand, his knuckles white. His face drained of color, leaving him as pale as the winter snows.

  "Ser Luke?"

  Olenna’s voice was different. The imperious edge was gone, repced by genuine arm. She stared at the crushed goblet, then at his hand.

  "Are you unwell?"

  Luke straightened up. The motion was rigid, mechanical.

  The calm Jedi teacher who had walked into the tent was gone. The man who stood there now had the eyes of a soldier who had seen pnets burn. He was not looking at Olenna. He was staring through the silk walls of the pavilion, staring North, across leagues and mountains and walls of ice.

  "It's begun," Luke whispered.

  Olenna gripped the arms of her chair. "What has begun?"

  Luke turned his head slowly. His blue eyes were fierce, burning with a terrifying intensity.

  "The only war that matters."

  He did not wait for dismissal. He did not bow.

  Luke turned and ran.

  He moved with a speed that defied the heavy air of the tent. He was a blur of motion, a gust of wind that sent the tapestries fluttering. He was gone before Olenna could draw her next breath.

  The Queen of Thorns sat alone in the silence of her pavilion. She stared at the empty space where the strange man had stood. Slowly, her hand reached out for her own goblet, seeking something to steady her nerves.

  Her fingers brushed the stem. She saw her own hand trembling. The tremors were slight, but they were there.

  Olenna pulled her hand back. She curled it into a tight fist, her nails digging into her palm. She looked at the crushed silver cup on the table, at the spilled wine spreading like a dark omen across the wood. For the first time in forty years, Olenna Tyrell felt the cold touch of true uncertainty.

  The training ring was surrounded by a wall of noise. Men were shouting, exchanging coins, spping backs.

  Inside the ropes, Jon Snow was extending a hand to Ser Loras.

  The Knight of Flowers was on one knee, his chest heaving, his hair pstered to his forehead with sweat. His face was a mask of exhaustion and disbelief. Jon stood over him, barely winded, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

  Loras took the hand. He let Jon haul him to his feet. He shook his head, water flying from his hair.

  "I threw everything I had at you," Loras gasped. "Everything. You were an impregnable wall. I couldn't find a single crack."

  Jon nodded. "You overextended on your st pass. You left your fnk open."

  "I..." Loras ughed, a breathless, incredulous sound. "I suppose I did."

  The crowd parted violently.

  Luke burst through the press of bodies. He looked wild. His hair was disheveled, his face pale and slick with sweat. His eyes were wide, darting frantically.

  Jon’s smile vanished instantly. He had never seen his master look like this. Not even when facing the ironborn.

  Luke vaulted the rail, nding in the dirt beside them. He ignored Loras entirely, though the Knight of Flowers stepped forward, opening his mouth to speak.

  Luke didn't give him the chance. He grabbed Jon’s arm, his mechanical fingers digging into the flesh with bruising force.

  "With me," Luke said. His voice was tight, strained, leaving no room for argument. "Now."

  "Master, wait—" Jon started, gncing back at Loras. "My lord, forgive me—"

  "Move, Jon."

  Luke hauled him away, using a subtle push of the Force to part the confused crowd. He didn't stop until they had rounded the corner of the supply wagons and ducked into the heavy canvas shadows of Jon’s own modest tent. Luke sealed the fp behind them, plunging them into dim silence, finally cutting off the roar of the camp.

  Only then did he let go. Luke paced the small space, his hands shaking.

  "What happened?" Jon asked, rubbing his arm. "Did Lady Olenna threaten you?"

  "Robb," Luke choked out.

  The name stopped Jon cold.

  Luke looked up, his eyes tracking something through the canvas roof, something far to the North. "He's... darkness. Pure darkness. They've found him."

  Jon felt a chill seize his heart. "The Walkers?"

  "I can feel him running," Luke said. "He's drawing them away. He's acting as bait." Luke ran a hand through his hair, pacing faster. "But I don't know... I don't know if we can get there. It's too far, Jon. Even if we ride now, even if we kill the horses..."

  The indecision on Luke’s face was terrifying. This was the man who spoke of starships and gactic wars with calm certainty. Now, he looked helpless against the sheer tyranny of distance.

  Jon stepped forward. He gripped Luke’s shoulder, stopping his pacing.

  "Then we leave now," Jon said firmly. "We ride hard. We don't stop. We get to the coast and we find a ship. We do not wait."

  Luke looked at him. He saw the resolve in Jon’s eyes, the Stark steel. He took a breath, nodding.

  "Yes. You're right. We—"

  A sound cut through the air.

  BEEP-SQUEAL-WHISTLE.

  It was a harsh, electronic dissonance, utterly alien to the sounds of Westeros. It was a mechanical scream of binary code.

  The noise came from Luke’s belt.

  Jon froze, his hand dropping to the hilt of his training sword. "What in the seven hells is that?" he hissed, looking around the empty tent for the intruder.

  Luke stared down at his belt. His expression shifted from panic to shock, and then to a desperate, incredulous hope. He grabbed the small metal cylinder clipped there—his comlink. His thumb pressed the receiver.

  "It's R2-D2," Luke said, his voice trembling. "My droid."

  The binary whistle cut out abruptly. It was repced by the hiss of static, a white noise that sounded like rain on stone.

  Luke frowned. He adjusted the frequency dial with shaking fingers.

  "Wait..." Luke whispered. "Someone is using his comm link. Someone is patching through the frequency."

  The static popped. It cleared with a sharp electronic snap.

  A voice cut through the silence of the tent. It was rough, weary, and ced with a scoundrel's charm. It was a voice from another world, impossible and undeniable.

  "Kid?" Han Solo asked. "You there?"