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[Look To The Stars] Chapter 41: The Melee and the Maelstrom
🕑 Added 2025-11-02 20:46:06 +0000 UTCDisclaimer: 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: A late Happy Halloween and hope everyone enjoys this "Tournament Arc" :D
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Highgarden, The Reach
The Tyrell plate sat heavy on Luke's shoulders, the ornate scrollwork catching sunlight and throwing it back in scattered gleams. He stood at the edge of the tourney field, testing the weight distribution with small shifts of his stance. The armor was beautiful work, masterfully crafted, but it felt like wearing a gilded cage. Each piece had been fitted to perfection, yet compared to the freedom of his Jedi robes, he might as well have been encased in carbonite.
The blunted steel sword in his hand felt worse. Just crude metal hammered into shape, its balance adequate but uninspired. Luke gave it an experimental swing, feeling how the momentum carried past the point where a lightsaber would have stopped instantly.
This is what they fight with, he thought, watching knights in the staging area test their own weapons. Every day, every battle. No wonder their forms developed so differently.
The crowd's roar washed over him like a physical wave. Thousands packed the stands, their voices blending into a wall of sound that would have overwhelmed lesser senses. Luke closed his eyes, drawing the Force around himself like a cloak. The chaos filtered, separated into distinct threads. Individual conversations emerged from the din, emotions crystallizing into recognizable patterns.
Excitement. Bloodlust. The peculiar anticipation of those who'd come to watch violence dressed as sport.
Luke opened his eyes, but kept his Force awareness expanded. He'd been practicing this for weeks, to look for cracks in everything a technique made famous by Master Windu. Luke had never learned it properly, but now, stranded on this world with threats he barely understood, he needed every advantage.
The tourney field spread before him like a tactical display. Not just dirt and grass, but a complex web of potential. Each knight represented a node of intent and capability. Their armor had weak points, their stances revealed habits, their very thoughts created fractures in the Force that Luke could almost see if he looked correctly.
A chance to learn shatterpoint under controlled conditions.
The thought carried a strange excitement, primal and almost uncomfortable. He'd fought in wars, yes. Destroyed the Death Star, faced Vader twice, stood against the Emperor himself. But those had been battles for survival, for the fate of the galaxy. This was different. Men would bleed here for glory, for honor, for the entertainment of nobles who'd never held a blade in anger. The blunted weapons reduced the risk but didn't eliminate it. A blow to the head, a fall from a horse, a sword finding the gap in plate armor where it shouldn't fit.
Death wore many masks. Today it wore roses and silk.
"Ser Luke!" A squire approached, his Tyrell livery spotless. "King Renly calls for all combatants to assemble."
Luke nodded, securing his helm under his arm. The crowd's noise swelled as he moved toward the field's center, joining the other knights. He counted twenty-three in total, each bearing the colors of different houses. The Rainbow Guard stood out in their distinctive armor—red, orange, yellow, blue, indigo, violet. Each one radiated confidence born of skill and royal favor. Though. the blue one was different. Their Force signature blazed with honor so pure it was almost painful to perceive. The helm remained on, but Luke already knew what he'd find beneath.
Ser Garlan Tyrell stood among them, and he could tell that Ser Garlan has more experience than mere hacking in a tourney.
King Renly emerged onto the royal platform, resplendent in cloth-of-gold and green silk. The young king moved with the easy confidence of someone who'd never truly been denied anything, his smile bright as summer sunshine. Beside him sat Queen Margaery, lovely in a gown that probably cost more than most smallfolk earned in a lifetime.
"Lords and ladies!" Renly's voice carried across the field, amplified by the natural acoustics of the tourney grounds. "Welcome to Highgarden! Today we celebrate not just my marriage to the beautiful Margaery, but the strength and valor of the Reach!"
The crowd roared approval. Luke felt the king's genuine pleasure in their adulation, mixed with something else. Calculation? No, more subtle than that. Renly was performing, yes, but he believed in the performance. He'd convinced himself that charm and spectacle could substitute for harder virtues.
Like the Senate before the Clone Wars, Luke thought. All ceremony and no substance, until the Empire proved otherwise.
"The melee begins now!" Renly raised his hand. "May the Seven smile upon you all!"
A horn blast shattered the air, and chaos erupted.
Knights charged from all directions, seeking glory or simply seeking to avoid being the first eliminated. Luke remained still, watching the initial collision with Force-enhanced perception. He saw the patterns immediately, the way aggressive fighters sought each other out while more cautious combatants circled the edges.
A knight in Fossoway colors charged directly at Luke, sword raised for an overhead strike. Luke could see the shatterpoint in his approach, a slight over-rotation of the hips that threw his balance forward. When the blow came, Luke simply wasn't there anymore. He'd shifted left, the minimum distance necessary, and the knight's momentum carried him stumbling past.
Luke's sword tapped the back of the man's knee, the gentlest pressure at precisely the right angle. The knight's leg buckled, sending him face-first into the dirt. Yield or be trampled by others—the man chose wisely, raising his hand in surrender.
"First blood to the stranger!" the herald called.
Luke was already moving. Two more knights converged on him, clearly having decided the unknown quantity needed to be eliminated early. They came in coordinated, one high and one low, a pincer designed to overwhelm.
Luke saw the shatterpoint in their timing. The high strike would arrive a fraction of a second before the low. He parried the descending blade, using its force to accelerate his own movement. His sword swept down, catching the low attacker's blade at the perfect angle to redirect it into the dirt. Both knights stumbled into each other, their coordination shattered.
A light tap to the first knight's gauntlet, striking a nearly invisible weak point where the articulated plates met. The man's hand went numb, his sword clattering from nerveless fingers. The second knight recovered faster, but Luke was already inside his guard. A pommel strike to the shoulder pauldron, exploiting a structural weakness in the armor's construction. The man's arm went limp.
Both yielded within heartbeats of each other.
Luke flowed between opponents like water through cracks in stone. Each defeat came with minimal effort, his movements economical to the point of appearing effortless. He wasn't fighting so much as demonstrating the inevitable, showing each knight the exact moment their attack failed before they'd fully committed to it.
There. A flash of greasy intent in the Force. Luke's attention snapped to the large knight in blue armor, the one radiating honor like a beacon. Two other combatants circled behind, their thoughts reeking of cruelty and coin. A wager, Luke realized. They'd bet on bringing down the mystery knight, and honor meant nothing compared to gold.
The shatterpoint between them was brittle, ugly. A fissure in the tourney's pretense of chivalry that demanded disruption.
Luke moved before conscious thought completed. The first coward committed to his strike, telegraphing his intent through the Force a heartbeat before his muscles engaged. Luke reached out with the Force, the subtlest pressure against the knight's ankle. The man's foot twisted at precisely the wrong moment, his charge becoming a stumble.
The second coward was already moving, unable to stop his momentum. He slammed into his companion, both going down in a crash of steel and curses that drew laughter from the crowd.
Before they could recover, Luke was there. His blade twisted around the first man's sword with a flick of the wrist, sending the weapon spinning away. The second managed to raise his guard, but Luke's pommel strike found the structural weakness in his pauldron, the spot where the smith had skimped on rivets. The armor joint collapsed, the man's arm going limp.
Both cowards yielded, their faces flushed with humiliation. The crowd's laughter followed them as they limped from the field.
The large knight turned, and Luke felt gratitude pulse through the Force. A small nod of acknowledgment passed between them before the knight engaged another opponent.
Luke dispatched three more challengers in quick succession. A Tarly knight who relied too heavily on strength, a Crane whose footwork was impeccable but whose timing was predictable, a Hightower who thought speed alone would carry the day. Each fell to shatterpoint exploitation, their weaknesses laid bare by the Force.
Then Ser Garlan Tyrell stepped forward, and the quality of opposition changed entirely.
"They said a traveler was carving a path through our best." Garlan's voice carried genuine admiration, no mockery in his tone. His armor gleamed in the sunlight, the golden rose on his breastplate catching and throwing light. "I see they were not exaggerating."
Luke settled into a ready stance, studying his opponent through the Force. Garlan radiated the clean thrill of a true swordsman, someone who fought for the joy of testing himself against worthy opponents. No darkness here, no cruelty. Just skill meeting skill.
"Ser Garlan." Luke inclined his head respectfully. "I've heard you train against three opponents at once."
"Four, actually." Garlan's smile was infectious. "Though I suspect that won't help me here. Shall we?"
Their blades met with a sound like a bell tolling. The impact sang up Luke's arm, Garlan's strength immediately apparent. This wasn't a tournament fighter playing at war—this was a warrior who happened to be competing in a tournament.
Luke shifted from Soresu's defensive sphere into Djem So's aggressive stance. If Garlan wanted a true contest, he'd get one.
Their swords clashed again, and Luke felt the sheer pleasure of matching skill against skill. Garlan's technique was flawless, his transitions between attacks smooth as water. He pressed forward with calculated aggression, each strike designed to create openings for the next.
Luke met him head-on. Djem So's philosophy was simple: dominate through superior power and timing. Like a Krayt dragon. He blocked Garlan's overhead strike with a rooted stance that absorbed the impact, then immediately countered with a riposte that forced Garlan back a step.
"Excellent!" Garlan laughed, genuine delight in his voice. "They said you fought like no one they'd ever seen. Now I understand why!"
They circled each other, only Garlan breathing harder now. The crowd had gone quiet, recognizing they were witnessing something special. Even the other combatants had paused to watch.
Garlan attacked with a combination that would have overwhelmed most opponents—high, low, high again, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next. Luke's blade was there for each one, not just deflecting but absorbing the kinetic energy and turning it back in overwhelming counters.
The Force showed Luke the pattern in Garlan's attacks. Not a weakness, exactly, but a rhythm. The knight favored certain transitions, preferred specific angles. And there, in the split-second between his third and fourth strike, a gap appeared in his guard.
Luke flowed into the opening like water finding a crack. His parry became a bind, his blade sliding along Garlan's until the hilts locked. A twist of his wrist, augmented by the Force's subtle pressure at precisely the right angle, and Garlan's sword tore from his grip.
The weapon spun through the air, landing point-first in the dirt ten feet away.
Garlan stood frozen for a heartbeat, staring at his empty hands. Then he threw back his head and laughed, raising both hands high.
"I yield! Magnificently done!" He gestured with his head, still grinning. "But the victory is not yours yet, Ser. One remains."
Luke turned, already knowing what he'd find. The large knight stood alone, the last combatant besides Luke still standing. Every other fighter had either yielded or been eliminated. The crowd's noise swelled, anticipation crackling through the air like lightning before a storm.
The knight's posture radiated wary respect. Through the Force, Luke felt no anger at his intervention earlier, only acknowledgment of debt and the determination to settle it honorably.
Slowly, deliberately, the knight reached up and removed the helm.
Straw-colored hair spilled free, longer than fashion dictated but practical for someone who lived in armor. The face beneath was unconventional by Southern standards, strong-featured and honest, with a wide mouth and prominent nose. But the eyes, Luke saw those fierce blue eyes, and understood everything he needed to know about this warrior.
A gasp rippled through the crowd. Whispers spread like wildfire. A woman. A woman had fought her way to the final round of King Renly's melee.
Luke felt no surprise. The Force had already whispered the truth.
"I am Brienne of Tarth." Her voice was deep and steady, carrying across the suddenly quiet field. She met Luke's gaze directly, no shame or apology in her expression. "I thank you for your aid, though it was not needed."
Luke inclined his head, genuine respect in the gesture. "I have no doubt. But I do not suffer cowards gladly."
A smile touched her lips, rare and genuine. "Nor do I. On that, we are agreed." She raised her sword, settling into a stance that spoke of years of training. "But the day is not yet decided."
Luke felt the Force pulse between them, warrior to warrior, recognizing kindred spirits despite the vast gulf in their origins. Here was someone who'd fought for every scrap of respect, who'd proven themselves again and again to those who would never truly accept her.
"Your stance is excellent," Luke said, meaning it. "Shall we begin?"
Brienne attacked.
The force of her first strike nearly drove Luke back a step. She fought like a storm given form, each blow carrying the weight of a battering ram. Her strength was astonishing, her technique refined through countless hours of practice against opponents who'd never given her the courtesy of holding back.
Luke shifted his weight, rooting himself in Djem So's wide stance. This was the perfect form to meet her power, to absorb and redirect rather than simply evade. Their blades met with a sound like thunder, the impact reverberating through the tourney grounds.
Brienne pressed forward relentlessly. She didn't fight with the flashy combinations of knights seeking to impress crowds. Her style was brutally efficient, each strike designed to break through defense through sheer overwhelming force.
Luke met her aggression with calculated counter-attacks. When she struck high, he blocked and immediately riposted low. When she swept left, he absorbed the impact and turned it back against her with a powerful overhead that forced her to give ground.
The crowd erupted. This was what they'd come to see, two warriors at the peak of their abilities, neither giving quarter.
Brienne's spirit was unbreakable, her determination absolute. But there, in her footwork, he began to perceive the pattern. She favored her right side slightly, a compensation for some old injury perhaps. When she committed to her heavier strikes, her left foot always planted at the same angle.
The shatterpoint wasn't in her spirit or even her technique. It was in that repeated pattern, that one predictable element in an otherwise flawless style. The only thing lacking was experience.
Luke waited, letting the duel continue. Their blades rang against each other in a rhythm that felt almost musical. Sweat soaked through his padding despite the cool air. Brienne's endurance was remarkable, her breathing still controlled even after the extended combat.
Now.
Brienne wound up for one of her devastating overhead strikes, the kind that had broken lesser opponents' guards. Her left foot planted at that familiar angle, her weight shifting forward. Luke saw the exact moment to act.
He didn't block. Instead, he stepped into the attack's path, his blade rising not to meet hers but to guide it past. The Force flowed through his movements, augmenting his speed and precision. His sword slid along hers, the bind forming naturally as he turned his body, using her own momentum against her.
Brienne's eyes widened as she felt her balance shift, her powerful strike becoming a liability. Luke completed the sequence, his blade trapping hers, his positioning forcing her to either release her weapon or follow it down.
She chose to follow, dropping to one knee to maintain her grip. But Luke was already there, the blunted tip of his sword resting gently against her gorget, precisely where the armor's articulation left a gap.
"Yield?" Luke asked quietly, loud enough for only her to hear.
Brienne's jaw clenched. Luke felt her struggle, pride warring with pragmatism. Then she released her sword, letting it fall to the grass.
"I yield." The words came out strong despite her defeat.
The crowd exploded. Cheers and shouts washed over the field in waves. Luke stepped back, offering Brienne his hand. She stared at it for a moment before accepting, allowing him to help her to her feet.
"Well fought," Luke said, meaning every word. "Your skill is remarkable."
"As is yours." Brienne retrieved her sword, her expression unreadable. "I've never faced anyone who fights like you. That final move, the way you turned my own strength against me..."
"Djem So," Luke said simply. "A style built on domination through superior technique and timing."
King Renly's voice rang out across the field. "A victory well-earned, Ser Luke!" The young king stood at the rail of his platform, beaming with delight. Through the Force, Luke felt Renly's genuine pleasure in the spectacle, though disappointment flickered beneath. None of his Rainbow Guard had won, a small blow to his pride. "Though none of my Rainbow Guard won the day, they have proven the valor of my cause with their magnificent fight!"
The crowd roared approval. Renly basked in it, arms spread wide as if embracing the very sound.
Luke heard individual voices cutting through the din. Sam's distinctive squeak of excitement. Falia's delighted laughter. Marwyn's gruff shout of approval. Alyn's warrior's respect in his call.
And quieter, more controlled, the reactions of those who understood what they'd witnessed. Jon's presence in the Force pulsed with pride and something like relief. Harwin's steady approval. Sarella's sharp interest, her mind already analyzing what she'd seen.
Servants rushed onto the field with wine and water. Luke removed his helm, grateful for the cool air on his sweat-soaked face. Ser Garlan approached, grinning widely.
"That was magnificent! You must teach me that final technique. I've never seen anything like it."
"It requires years of training," Luke said, accepting a cup of water. "But I'd be happy to discuss the principles behind it."
Brienne stood apart, her face impassive as she watched the celebrations. Luke felt her isolation through the Force, the way the other knights avoided her despite her skill. Or perhaps because of it.
He moved to her side, ignoring the surprised looks from those nearby.
"You fight with honor," Luke said quietly. "That's rarer than skill."
Brienne's eyes found his, searching for mockery and finding none. "You're the first person to say that without adding 'for a woman' at the end."
"Where I come from, gender has nothing to do with a warrior's worth."
Something shifted in her expression, a crack in the armor she wore more carefully than the steel on her body. "Where exactly do you come from, Ser Luke?"
Luke smiled slightly. "Very far away. Far enough that our customs differ significantly from yours."
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Luke sat at a table positioned respectfully close to the high table, close enough to demonstrate favor but far enough to avoid the most intense scrutiny. The noise pressed against his Force awareness like static, requiring constant filtering to maintain clarity. He'd grown accustomed to Jedi austerity, to meditation chambers where the only sound was breathing, to the quiet focus required for lightsaber forms. This celebration of excess felt almost obscene by comparison.
Beside him, Jon sat rigid as a statue carved from Northern ice. The young man's discomfort radiated through the Force like heat from a forge, a sharp discordant note in the hall's symphony of indulgence. Jon's eyes tracked the room with the wariness of a soldier in enemy territory, his hand resting too close to where a sword would hang.
Luke leaned toward him, pitching his voice low enough that only Jon would hear over the surrounding chaos. "I understand. A desolate ice wasteland can't prepare a man for this." He allowed a hint of wry humor to color his tone. "A desolate sand world, on the other hand... there's not much difference."
Jon's mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile breaking through his careful mask. But his eyes remained sharp, intelligent, missing nothing. "Why are they doing this?" he asked quietly, gesturing subtly at the feast around them. "Feasts, tourneys... The Lannisters are gathering swords in the West. Renly celebrates while his enemies sharpen their blades."
Luke took a sip of wine, letting the question settle. The Arbor vintage was excellent, far superior to anything he'd tasted in the cantinas of the Outer Rim. His gaze drifted across the hall, taking in the assembled lords and ladies. He saw the patterns beneath the surface, the way power flowed through conversation and gesture, the alliances being forged over wine cups and whispered promises.
"Power is not victory, Jon. It is only the potential for it." Luke set down his cup, his mechanical hand moving with the same fluid grace as flesh and blood. "Renly has the numbers, the food, the wealth. But a storm without direction is just wind. The Lannisters have a purpose. Renly is still building one." He paused, watching the young king laugh at something Lord Mace Tyrell said. "This tourney isn't for his enemies. It's for his allies. He's forging them into a single weapon."
Jon absorbed this, his Force presence shifting from confusion to understanding. Before he could respond, a booming voice cut through the ambient noise.
"Ser Luke! A masterclass on the field today!"
Ser Garlan Tyrell approached their table, his face flushed with wine and good cheer. Beside him walked his elder brother Willas, moving with surprising grace despite the ornate cane he used for support. Luke stood, Jon following his example with Northern courtesy.
"Ser Garlan." Luke inclined his head. "You fought well yourself. Your technique is exceptional."
"Exceptional enough to lose." Garlan laughed, the sound genuine and free of bitterness. "But what a loss! I've been telling Willas about that final disarm. I've never seen anything like it."
Willas Tyrell studied Luke with eyes that held more thoughtfulness than his brother's open enthusiasm. "My brother speaks of your bladework, but I am more curious about the man." His voice carried the measured tones of someone accustomed to careful observation. "Where is it you hail from, Ser? Your speech has no familiar cadence."
Luke gave his practiced answer, the one he'd refined over months in Westeros. "The deserts far to the east of the Red Waste, my lord. Beyond the maps most maesters keep." The lie came easily, wrapped in enough truth to feel authentic. He did come from a desert world, after all. Just not one on this planet.
Garlan turned his attention to Jon, clapping the younger man on the back with enough force to make him sway. "And you, Lord Snow! Are you ready for my brother Loras tomorrow? He was born on a horse."
Jon's reply came steady, his Northern reserve showing through. "My brother Robb is the finest rider I know, and would be a much better match for Ser Loras. But that doesn't mean I won't be ready."
Garlan laughed heartily, the sound drawing glances from nearby tables. "I like this one, Willas! He has the Northern steel."
Willas's gaze remained gentle but probing, his attention shifting between Luke and Jon with an intensity that suggested he saw more than most. "We would be honored if you would permit us to meet your direwolves. I have a passion for breeding fine animals." He paused, then added with apparent casualness, "I've been attempting to recreate some of the legendary hounds from the Age of Heroes."
Jon nodded. "Ghost and Amidala would be pleased to meet you, my lord. Though I should warn you, they're particular about strangers."
"As all noble creatures should be." Willas's smile was warm, but his next words carried an edge of something sharper. His voice lowered, forcing Luke and Jon to lean in slightly. "There are also... strange reports from Oakenshield. A harbor destroyed by unnatural means. They speak of… sorcery."
Luke met his gaze calmly, letting a slight, enigmatic smile touch his lips. The Force whispered that Willas Tyrell was testing them, probing for reactions, gathering information to report back to his grandmother. "The world is full of strange reports, my lord."
Before Willas could press further, King Renly's voice cut through the hall like a clarion call. "Ser Luke! Come, your victory must be rewarded!"
The hall quieted, hundreds of faces turning toward Luke. He felt the weight of their attention, the curiosity and speculation rippling through the Force like stones dropped in still water. With a slight bow to the Tyrell brothers, Luke made his way toward the high table, aware of Jon's concerned presence tracking his movement.
Renly stood as Luke approached, resplendent in cloth-of-gold and green silk that caught the torchlight and threw it back in shimmering waves. The young king's smile was bright as summer sunshine, his pleasure in the spectacle genuine. Beside him, Queen Margaery watched with those knowing brown eyes, her expression pleasant but unreadable.
"Ser Luke." Renly's voice carried across the hall, pitched for maximum effect. "Your performance today was nothing short of magnificent. You've given us quite the show."
Four servants approached in unison, bearing between them a heavy ironbound chest. The wood was dark, polished to a gleam, and the hinges gleamed silver in the torchlight. Renly moved forward with theatrical flourish, throwing back the lid himself.
The firelight caught the contents and threw back a golden glow that rippled across the faces of those nearest. Dragons. Hundreds of them, piled high enough that several spilled over the edge when the lid opened, clinking against the wood with that distinctive ring of pure gold.
"For the champion!" Renly announced, his voice carrying to the rafters.
"But a prize is not enough for such valor," Renly declared, his voice rising. Luke felt the king's intent through the Force a heartbeat before the words came. "Ser, I would offer you a place of honor. A rainbow cloak. A spot in my personal guard."
The hall went utterly silent. Luke felt the significance of the moment ripple outward through the assembled nobles. This was more than a simple reward. This was a political statement, an attempt to bind him to Renly's cause, to claim his abilities for the king's service.
Luke bowed his head respectfully, buying himself a moment to frame his response. When he spoke, his voice carried quiet conviction without arrogance. "Your Grace is more than generous. But my service is pledged to Lord Stark and his family. I am their man."
The answer was perfect. Firm, honorable, politically flawless. It acknowledged Renly's kingship while reinforcing the North's independence. Luke felt approval from several quarters of the hall, particularly from the sparingly few Northerner's present.
"A loyal man. How refreshing." Renly's smile never wavered, though Luke sensed the flicker of disappointment through the Force. The words came light, almost teasing, but carried an edge beneath the charm. "Lord Stark is fortunate to have such devoted service."
"Is it Lord Stark who commands such loyalty, I wonder?" Lady Olenna Tyrell's words carried with deceptive mildness, her spotted hands folded atop her cane. Her rheumy eyes, far keener than her frail appearance suggested, flicked past Luke to someone behind him. "Or perhaps someone else?"
The Queen of Thorns hadn't survived decades of court intrigue by missing details. He can sense her calculating mind piecing together fragments of random information, coming to a forgone conclusion.
"I am a teacher and guard to all Lord Stark's children, my lady," Luke said carefully, meeting her gaze with quiet respect. The truth, if not the whole truth.
"How very—"
"He is skilled, Your Grace," Lord Mace Tyrell interrupted, leaning forward with the oblivious confidence of a man who'd never noticed his mother's pointed questions. His patronizing tone grated against Luke's ears. "But my Loras would have had him in the melee."
Renly waved off his good-father's comment with practiced ease. "Perhaps we'll see tomorrow, my lord." He turned back to Luke. "You're dismissed, Ser. Enjoy the feast."
Luke bowed again and turned to walk back to his seat. He was halfway back to his table when a spike of cold fury and helpless fear lanced through the Force like a blade of ice. Luke's head snapped up, his eyes immediately finding Jon.
The young Stark was no longer at their table. He stood near one of the hall's side entrances, facing a stern, imposing man whose presence radiated martial competence and unyielding pride. The man's hand gripped the arm of a trembling Samwell Tarly, who looked on the verge of tears.
Jon's face was a mask of controlled Northern rage, the kind of cold anger that preceded violence. Through the Force, Luke felt the boy's fury building like pressure behind a dam, felt the dangerous heat of his pyrokinetic abilities stirring in response to his emotions.
The man holding Sam's arm had to be Lord Randyll Tarly. Luke recognized him from descriptions, from the way Sam's fear spiked in his presence, from the cruel satisfaction radiating from the lord like heat from a forge. This was the man who'd threatened to kill his own son, who'd driven a gentle scholar into exile at the Wall.
Jon's hand had moved to his belt, fingers curling as if reaching for a sword that wasn't there. Frost was beginning to form on the stone floor around his feet, so subtle that most wouldn't notice but unmistakable to Luke's Force-enhanced perception.
Luke moved, his stride lengthening as he crossed the hall as he focused entirely on reaching Jon before the situation exploded into something none of them could contain.
Comments
Hannan Potashman
Great chapter thanks!
luther casey
A cliff hanger you blue balling me my guy
IS6A6E
Well in Star Wars lore there is a power called Cryokinesis. But from what I read, it’s not about generating ice by stealing the heat from people’s bodies.
BlueBuck
creating frost is that a jedi thing or a westeros thing?
Full Horizon
😈
Winter
Bruhhh why u gotta do me like that
Mandragoran
I need more
Full Horizon
There have been some hints... 👀
IS6A6E
Wait, hold on, was Jon creating ice at the end there? Can he use ice as well as fire?
Noknok
Oho, both fire and frost
