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[Look To The Stars] Chapter 28: Masks of Necessity
🕑 Added 2025-08-17 02:44:15 +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.
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Whispering Sound
Luke circled Jon on the ship's deck, their steel blades catching the morning sun that filtered through the salt spray. Two hours until Oldtown. Two hours before they'd have to sheath their swords and put on a play. The thought pressed against Luke's mind as he watched Jon flow through the opening sequence of Vaapad, his movements sharp but still too hesitant.
"Your anger's locked in your shoulders," Luke said, shifting his own stance into Djem So's wide, grounded position. "Let it flow through your whole body, not just your arms."
Jon adjusted immediately, his next strike carrying more fluidity. The boy learned fast and with passion though maybe the passion was a distraction.
Luke brought his blade down in a crushing overhead strike, the Falling Avalanche technique he'd adapted from ancient Jedi texts. Jon barely deflected it, steel ringing against steel with a sound that sent sailors scrambling away from their practice area.
"Good. Now counter."
Jon's riposte came swift and vicious, channeling his emotion into precise aggression. Luke parried, noting the improvement in Jon's footwork. The boy no longer telegraphed his intentions through his stance.
"Better." Luke pressed forward with a series of heavy blows, each one designed to test Jon's defenses. "But you're still thinking too much. Vaapad requires instinct."
Jon's grey eyes darkened—not the sickly yellow of corruption, but the focused intensity of someone learning to harness their inner storm. He launched into a whirling combination that would have overwhelmed most swordsmen. Luke deflected each strike, using minimal movement to redirect Jon's momentum.
"Your left side drops when you commit to the spin," Luke corrected mid-parry, bringing his blade around to tap Jon's exposed ribs. "Again."
Without hesitation, Jon repeated the sequence, this time keeping his guard tight. The correction was immediate, instinctive. Luke felt a surge of pride through the Force. Most students required weeks to integrate such adjustments. Jon did it in heartbeats.
Luke increased his pressure, hammering down with Djem So's brutal efficiency. He watched Jon's expression shift from determination to something closer to desperation. Then, surprising him, Jon's stance transformed. The aggressive lines of Vaapad melted into Soresu's defensive sphere, his blade weaving a near-impenetrable barrier.
Interesting. Luke hadn't taught him to switch forms mid-combat yet.
"You're adapting," Luke observed, testing Jon's defense with probing strikes. "Good. But don't abandon aggression entirely."
He deliberately left an opening, dropping his shoulder just enough to expose his right flank. Jon's eyes caught it immediately. The defensive web collapsed as Jon surged forward with Vaapad's characteristic ferocity, his blade singing toward the gap.
Luke twisted away at the last second, bringing his sword around to lock with Jon's at the hilts.
"Excellent." Their faces were inches apart, both breathing hard. "You saw the trap but took it anyway. Why?"
"Because sometimes the trap's worth springing if you're fast enough," Jon replied, his voice steady despite the exertion. "You taught me that."
Luke disengaged, stepping back as the Oldtown lighthouse emerged from the morning haze. The city's sprawl stretched along the Honeywine, the Citadel's towers piercing the sky like accusations. Time to end this.
"Your improvement's remarkable," Luke said, sheathing his blade. "Three months ago, you couldn't maintain Vaapad for thirty seconds without losing control. Now you're switching between forms instinctively."
Jon wiped sweat from his brow, his expression caught between pride and uncertainty. "It still feels dangerous. Like I'm one mistake from..."
"From becoming what you fear?" Luke understood that feeling intimately. "That awareness is what keeps you safe. The moment you stop questioning yourself is the moment you fall."
The ship's bell rang twice. One hour to port. Luke watched Jon secure his sword, noting how the boy's hand lingered on the pommel. In Oldtown, they'd have to rely on different weapons—words, wit, and the Force itself.
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Oldtown, The Reach
The Hightower rose from Oldtown like a stone finger pointing at the heavens, its beacon fire a distant star even in daylight. Luke felt the structure through the Force before he saw it clearly—a deep, resonant hum that reminded him of ancient Jedi temples, though darker somehow. The sensation crawled along his spine as their ship navigated the crowded harbor.
"Seven hells," Jon breathed beside him, gripping the rail. "It's even larger than the stories claim."
Luke studied the massive tower, its base wider than anything he'd seen on Coruscant. The Force whispered around it, not quite light or dark but something older, primal. Like the heart tree at Winterfell but concentrated, focused into stone and mortar.
"Beautiful piece of engineering," Luke said, though his attention remained on that strange Force signature. "Must have taken generations to build."
Jory Cassel spat over the side. "Aye, and generations of gold to maintain, I'd wager. Look at all those ships."
The harbor teemed with vessels from across the known world. Luke counted dozens of merchant cogs bearing sigils he didn't recognize. The smell hit them as they docked—fish, tar, human sweat, and something sweet that might have been rotting fruit.
"Harwin stays with the ship," Luke decided, turning to the guards. "And the wolves. We were six who left Oakenshield. Best if only five are seen entering the city."
Harwin nodded, though his hand went to his sword hilt. "I'll keep them safe, Ser Luke. Ghost and Amidala won't like being penned up though."
"They'll manage." Luke touched Amidala's head through the Force, sending calm. The direwolf's eyes met his, intelligent and accepting.
They found lodgings at the Quill and Tankard, a modest inn three streets back from the Citadel. Not the worst establishment Luke had seen—the rushes on the floor were fresh, and the ale didn't smell like it would kill anyone—but inconspicuous enough. The innkeeper, a thin man with ink-stained fingers, barely looked up from his ledger as they paid for three rooms.
"We should head to the Citadel first," Luke said once they'd stowed their gear. "Jon, you remember your role?"
Jon's jaw tightened. "Torrhen Karstark, second son of Lord Rickard. Father wants me to study at the Citadel without taking vows. Lord Stark wrote a letter of introduction."
"Good. The story needs to be simple. Complexity invites questions."
"What if they refuse?" Jon asked, adjusting his cloak to hide the sword at his hip. "The Citadel's notorious for turning away even highborn lords. They guard their knowledge like dragons guard gold."
Luke's mouth curved slightly. "There's always a way, Jon. The Force has many applications."
"You mean that mind trick you've mentioned?"
"Among other things."
Falia emerged from her room, having traded her travel-stained clothes for a simple dress they'd purchased from a merchant on the docks. The dress did little to hide her beauty but at least she could pass for a favored servant.
"I want to come," she said immediately.
"You should rest," Luke replied. "Alyn can stay by your side to keep guard."
"I've never been anywhere but Oakenshield." Her chin lifted, that stubborn streak Luke had sensed in her flaring bright. "I won't cause trouble. I can listen, learn things. People talk around women they think are simple."
"Women aren't permitted inside the Citadel," Jon said, his Northern accent thickening slightly. "Their laws are strict about that."
Falia's face fell for a heartbeat before brightening. "Then I'll explore the markets with Alyn. I've never seen proper city shops."
"That's..." Jon glanced at Luke. "Actually sensible. The merchant quarter surrounds the Citadel. Plenty to see."
Her eyes turned to Luke, wide and guileless in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of Leia when she wanted something from Han. The comparison twisted something in his chest.
Luke exhaled through his nose, already reaching for his coin purse. "Stay close to Alyn. Don't wander off alone." He pressed several silver stags into her palm—enough for a meal and perhaps some small purchase. "Anything can happen in city."
"I know how to listen." Falia's fingers closed around the coins. "Servants gossip about their masters everywhere. Might hear something useful about the maesters, which ones are sympathetic to outsiders."
"Just be careful," Luke said. The Force whispered no immediate danger, but cities had their own hazards.
Alyn shifted his weight, hand resting on his sword pommel. "I'll keep her safe, Ser Luke."
"Good man." Luke nodded to the sellsword, then turned toward the Citadel's looming entrance.
The walk to the Citadel took them through winding streets that grew progressively cleaner and wider. Merchants hawked everything from Myrish lace to Yi Ti silk. A juggler performed for copper coins while a septon preached about the Seven's judgment. Luke noticed Jon's wonder—the boy had never seen such concentrated humanity.
The Citadel itself dominated an entire district, its towers and domes sprawling like a city within the city. Luke felt Jon's awe spike through their Force bond as they approached the main entrance, a massive archway carved with symbols Luke recognized as astronomical markers.
Inside, the entry hall soared four stories, filled with the musty smell of old parchment and beeswax. Novices in grey robes scurried past carrying armloads of scrolls. The walls were lined with shelves containing more books than Luke had seen since the Jedi Archives.
A young man sat behind a desk near the entrance, his chain collar marking him as some sort of acolyte or novice. He looked up as they approached, his expression shifting from boredom to disdain as he took in their Northern look.
"State your business," he said, not bothering with courtesy.
Jon stepped forward before Luke could respond. Good—he needed to establish himself in this role.
"I am Torrhen Karstark," Jon said, his voice carrying just the right amount of Northern pride without arrogance as due for a third son. "My lord father has arranged for me to study your libraries. Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell provided this letter of introduction."
He produced the sealed parchment, which the novice took with obvious reluctance. Luke watched him read, sensing the prejudice rolling off him like heat from a forge. The boy, who he couldn't be more than seventeen, was enjoying his small authority.
"I cannot permit this," the novice said, handing the letter back without ceremony. "The Citadel's knowledge is not for every lordling who wishes to play at scholarship."
Luke started to move forward, already reaching for the Force, but Jon's hand shifted slightly, a gesture they'd practiced, meaning 'wait.' Interesting.
"I see," Jon said calmly. "And you have the authority to make such decisions? To turn away a lord's son with a letter from the Warden of the North?"
The novice's confidence wavered. "Well, I... that is..."
"Because if you do have such authority, I'll certainly inform Lord Stark that a novice—what was your name?—decided his word held no weight in Oldtown." Jon's tone remained pleasant, conversational even. "I'm sure he'll find that fascinating when he corresponds with the King."
"I didn't say... An archmaester would need to review..."
"Excellent." Jon turned and sat on a stone bench against the wall, crossing his arms. "We'll wait while you fetch one."
The novice stood frozen, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. Luke couldn't suppress his grin. His apprentice had learned well—sometimes the best way to use power was to make others use theirs.
"Perhaps I might help?"
A new voice drew their attention. A slender young acolyte had been watching from an alcove, Luke realized though he'd sensed the presence but dismissed it as non-threatening. The youth had the smooth, dark skin, with eyes that held unusual intelligence.
And Luke immediately knew: this was no young man at all.
The Force sang with the deception, though it was masterfully done. Everything from her stance to her voice had been carefully cultivated to project masculinity. Fascinating.
"I could speak with Archmaester Marwyn," the acolyte continued. "He's more... open-minded about such requests."
Jon stood, clearly relieved. "That would be most appreciated. Might I have your name?"
The acolyte seemed surprised by the courtesy. "Alleras. They call me Sphinx, sometimes, though I've never understood why."
"Jo—" Jon caught himself. "Torrhen Karstark. This is my father's man Harrick, and Loric."
Alleras's eyes lingered on Luke for a moment, as if sensing something unusual. Then she nodded. "Wait here. I'll return shortly."
As she left, Luke settled into meditation, letting his consciousness expand through the Citadel. So much knowledge here, layers upon layers of history and secrets. But underneath his exploration, a tremor ran through the Force—distant but urgent. Something was happening in the North. The sensation felt like ice cracking, like darkness stirring. Robb was in danger, or would be soon.
He pulled back, opening his eyes to find Jon watching him with concern.
"Is everything alright?"
"A disturbance," Luke said quietly. "Far from here. But we have our own task to complete."
Nearly an hour passed before Alleras returned, looking pleased with… himself.
"Archmaester Marwyn will see you," she announced. "Tomorrow, unfortunately. He's in the middle of a delicate experiment with the glass candles. But he's instructed me to ensure you have access starting at first light."
Jon stood and extended his hand. "Our thanks, Alleras."
She hesitated before taking it. Luke noticed Jon's slight surprise at something—probably the softness of her palm.
They left the Citadel as afternoon shadows grew long. Once they were well away from the entrance, Jon leaned close to Luke.
"Alleras is a woman," he whispered.
"Yes."
"You knew?"
"The Force reveals many things." Luke couldn't resist adding, "Was her hand soft?"
Jon's ears reddened. "I... yes, actually. Softer than you'd expect from someone who studies to be a maester. Even with the slight calluses."
"Observant. You're learning to see beyond surfaces."
"Why the deception though?"
"The Citadel doesn't accept women as acolytes. Sometimes we must wear masks to seek the knowledge we need." Luke thought of his own time disguised as a stormtrooper, infiltrating Jabba's palace. "Judge her by her actions, not her necessary deceptions."
Jon nodded slowly. "She helped us when she didn't need to. That speaks well of her."
"Indeed it does."
They walked in comfortable silence through Oldtown's late afternoon bustle. But Luke's thoughts kept returning northward, to that tremor in the Force. Whatever darkness stirred beyond the Wall was growing stronger. They needed to find what they came for quickly.
Tomorrow, Marwyn would hopefully provide answers. Tonight, Luke would meditate and try to understand what the Force was warning him about. The convergence of ice and fire Jon would represent was approaching faster than anticipated.
The Hightower's beacon flared to life as sunset approached, and again Luke felt that ancient hum through the Force. There were secrets in this city beyond just books and scrolls. Old magic, old power.
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Braavos, Essos
The Keyo estate rose before them like a fortress of pale stone, its high walls crowned with iron spikes that caught the afternoon light. Daenerys shifted the weight of the satchel containing her dragon eggs, the leather strap cutting into her shoulder despite the padding. Her legs trembled—whether from exhaustion or relief, she couldn't tell.
"My thanks," she said, turning to face Asher and Beskha. The words felt inadequate, hollow as empty shells. "You saved my life. Both of you."
Asher shrugged, his leather armor creaking with the movement. "Wasn't much trouble."
"Wasn't much?" Daenerys stared at him. "You killed two men."
"Only two," Beskha corrected, cleaning blood from beneath her fingernails with the tip of her dagger. "What a boring day."
The casual way she said it sent a chill through Daenerys's spine, yet these two had risked themselves for a stranger. She clutched the satchel tighter, feeling the warm pulse of the eggs through the leather. They seemed to hum against her ribs, as if sensing her turmoil.
"I have nothing to give you," she began, then stopped. The eggs. One of them could buy these two a ship, a house, a new life anywhere in the Free Cities. Her fingers found the clasp of the satchel, trembling as they worked the metal. "Actually, I—"
"Don't need payment for doing what's right, Dany." Asher's use of the shortened name startled her. She'd given it without thinking when they'd asked, too frightened to remember she was supposed to be someone else, anyone else. "Some bounty hunters are scum. Not much better from slavers, they'd sell their own mothers for enough coin."
Beskha's hand came down on Daenerys's back with enough force to drive the air from her lungs. "Sweet girl like you shouldn't have to deal with those types." Her dark eyes glinted with something between amusement and concern. "We'll wait here until your friend comes. Make sure you're safe."
Daenerys's hand fell away from the satchel's clasp. The eggs settled against her side, their warmth spreading through her ribs like wine through water.
The estate's iron gate groaned open, and Jorah emerged from the shadows beyond. His familiar bulk, the way he moved with his hand always near his sword as joy flooded through her chest. "Ser Jorah!"
But Asher's reaction cut through her relief like cold water through silk.
The rasp of his blade leaving its sheath rang across the courtyard. Beskha's weapon followed a heartbeat later, her stance shifting from relaxed to predatory as her gaze darted between the two men.
"Well," Asher said, his voice carrying the kind of recognition that made Daenerys's stomach drop. "Didn't know your friend was a criminal, Dany."
The word hung in the air like smoke from a pyre. Criminal. She knew what Asher meant—the slaves, the poachers Jorah had sold across the Narrow Sea. Her mouth opened, words of defense rising to her lips. "He's changed. What he did was—"
"Selling men into slavery?" Asher's knuckles whitened around his sword hilt. "There's no excuse for that. None."
Jorah had stopped ten paces away, his own blade singing free of its sheath. The afternoon sun caught the steel, sending light dancing across the courtyard stones. "Asher Forrester." His voice carried its own recognition, heavy and resigned. "Small world, meeting another Northern exile in Braavos."
"Our exiles aren't the same." Asher took a step forward, and Daenerys noticed how his weight stayed balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to spring in any direction. "I chose mine. For love. You? You sold men like cattle and still have the stones to call yourself a Northerner."
The words struck seemed to strike Jorah like a blow. His shoulders sagged, but his sword remained steady. "I don't want this to come to blows, Forrester."
"Then you shouldn't have become a slaver."
Beskha circled to Asher's left, her curved blade catching the light. The tension stretched taut as a bowstring, and Daenerys found herself moving before she'd made the conscious decision. She stepped between them, arms spread wide, the dragon eggs bouncing against her hip.
"Stop." Her voice cracked on the word. "Please."
"Move aside, Princess," Jorah said quietly. She'd never told him not to use the title, but hearing it now, in front of these strangers, made her skin crawl.
"Princess?" Beskha's eyebrows rose.
Asher's jaw worked as he processed this information. Then something else flickered across his face—calculation. "Lord Stark's in Braavos."
The color drained from Jorah's face so quickly Daenerys feared he might faint. "Ned Stark?"
"Aye. Arrived a day ago on business with the Iron Bank." Asher's smile held no warmth. "Imagine he'd be very interested to know where Jorah Mormont's been hiding. Might even earn me that pardon I've been wanting."
"Seven hells," Beskha breathed, the pieces clicking together in her mind. "Dany. You're the Daenerys. The dragon girl who ran from her wedding."
She could see the conflict playing across Asher's face—duty warring with whatever sense of honor had made him save her in the first place. The calculation was simple: two valuable prizes stood before him. Jorah Mormont, the exiled slaver. Daenerys Targaryen, the runaway Targaryen Princess.
She made her choice before doubt could creep in.
"I'll go with you."
"Princess, no!"
"I'll go with you to meet Lord Stark," she continued, keeping her eyes locked on Asher's. "But you let Ser Jorah leave. Now. No pursuit, no word to anyone about where he is."
"Absolutely not." Jorah stepped forward, and three blades rose in response. "I won't let you walk into Stark's hands. He'll use you as a hostage, or worse, sell you back to Robert Baratheon."
"You don't let me do anything." The sharpness in her voice surprised even her. "I make my own choices."
"Princess, this is madness!"
"This is negotiation." She turned back to Asher, whose sword had lowered slightly. "You're skilled fighters, both of you. So is Ser Jorah. If you fight here, someone dies. Maybe all of you. But if I come willingly..."
"Lord Stark's not known for mercy toward Targaryens," Asher said slowly. "Do you understand what you are saying?"
"Then I'll have to change his mind."
Beskha snorted. "You? Change the mind of Ned Stark? Even I have heard his story!"
"I have my ways." The eggs burned against her side, and for a moment she thought she heard them singing, a sound like wind through dragon bones. "Will I be allowed to leave after meeting him?"
Asher's hesitation told her everything. "I'll do what I can. Lord Stark's an honorable man, but..."
"But my father burned his father alive. I have… learned the history." She drew herself up to her full height, which wasn't much, but she'd learned from Viserys that presence mattered more than size. "I accept your terms."
"Daenerys, please." Jorah's voice broke on the plea. "Think about what you're doing. Stark has every reason to hate you, to want you dead."
"And yet he's also known as the most honorable man in Westeros." She moved to Jorah, placing her hand on his sword arm. The muscle beneath was rigid as stone. "I need you to trust me."
"How can I trust this? You're walking into the wolf's den."
"Wolves." The word triggered something, a flash of memory from her dragon dreams. Snow and wolves and a boy with blue eyes. "Yes, I suppose I am."
She squeezed his arm once, then stepped back. "Wait for me. I'll return."
"And if you don't?"
The question hung between them like a blade. She had no answer that wouldn't be a lie, so she offered none. Instead, she turned to Asher. "When do we leave?"
"Now would be best. Better to approach him tonight, while he's not surrounded by bankers. I'll set a meeting at a inn… to keep it public."
Beskha sheathed her weapon with obvious reluctance. "This is stupid, Ash. We should take them both."
"We gave our word," Asher replied, though he didn't sound entirely convinced of his own decision.
Daenerys adjusted the satchel's strap, the eggs settling against her hip like old friends. Three eggs. Three dragons that would never be. Unless... unless this gamble paid off in ways she couldn't yet imagine.
"Ser Jorah," she said without turning around. "Don't follow us."
"Princess—"
"That's a command."
She heard his sharp intake of breath, the scrape of his sword returning to its sheath. When she glanced back, he stood like a man carved from granite, jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscles jumping beneath his skin.
"As you command," he said, the words like ground glass.
Asher gestured toward the street. "We should move. The Stark party is staying near the Iron Bank, in the Prestyn Manse. There is a inn near by and it's a bit of a walk."
As they left the courtyard, Daenerys felt Jorah's gaze burning into her back. She was walking into the hands of her family's greatest enemy, armed with nothing but three stone eggs and a desperate hope that the honor of Ned Stark was more than just stories.
Behind them, she heard Jorah's voice, rough with emotion: "If you harm her, Forrester, there's nowhere in this world you can hide from me."
Asher didn't respond, but Beskha laughed—a sound like knives being sharpened. "Get in line, Mormont. Half the known world wants her. We're just the ones who found her first that can help."
The streets of Braavos stretched before them, canals reflecting the afternoon light like veins of gold. Somewhere ahead, Ned Stark waited, unaware that the last Targaryen princess was walking straight into his hands.
Fire and blood, she thought, the words of her house echoing in her mind. But today, she would try words first. If those failed... well, she'd learned from Viserys that dragons, even unhatched ones, had their own kind of power.
Comments
DarthGhengis
You have reached that unique level of writing where I both love and loathe every POV change - because on the one hand, I don't want to change from the POV I'm enjoying, but on the other I really want to see what else is happening!
Keeponlaffin
Oh boy, this is getting good
Winter
Shits getting wild
TabbyRabbit
I hope she hatches the eggs!! I can’t wait for her to train in the force.
Full Horizon
Thanks for pointing that out! It's fixed now :)
CDS
Hey minor detail, but I noticed you didn't put the year and location at the start of each section like you usually do. Was that intentional, or did you forget?
Mandragoran
God I can’t wait for the Ned Stark and Dany convo
IS6A6E
I love Jon and Luke’s relationship.
Laramy Elliott
Keeps getting better and better.
