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[Look To The Stars] Chapter 27: The Hunters and the Hunted *EDITED*
🕑 Added 2025-08-11 00:44:54 +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: If you enjoyed this chapter, please give it a like!
Update: Made some updates to Leia's POV about the baby... or should I say babies!
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Braavos, Essos
The mutton had gone cold on the wooden trencher, its grease congealing into white streaks that reminded Daenerys of the Shivering Sea she'd crossed to reach Braavos. She pushed a piece of turnip through the mess with her knife, her stomach too knotted to eat despite not having broken her fast that morning.
"You should eat, my lady." Doreah's voice carried that gentle reproach she'd perfected during their weeks of flight. The Lyseni girl sat across from her, tearing bread into small pieces with delicate fingers. "Starving yourself won't stretch our coin any further."
Daenerys touched the shorn ends of her silver-gold hair, still unaccustomed to how it barely brushed her shoulders now. Doreah had cut it with a fish knife their second night in Braavos, sawing through the distinctive Targaryen locks while Daenerys bit her lip to keep from crying. Not from pain, but from the loss of one more piece of herself.
"Three dragons left," Daenerys said, meaning the coins, not the eggs hidden beneath loose floorboards under their bed. "That's all we have. Three gold dragons to last until..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought. Until what? Until they starved? Until someone recognized her despite the shorn hair and cheap wool dress?
"Ser Jorah earns two silvers a week guarding Master Keyo's warehouses." Doreah reached across to squeeze Daenerys's hand. "We'll manage."
"He's a knight, not a common sellsword." The words came out sharper than Daenerys intended. "We fled Pentos with nothing but stolen eggs and the clothes on our backs. Now I have him working like a dock laborer while we hide in this..." She gestured at the water-stained walls, the narrow window that looked out on a canal thick with refuse.
"He serves you willingly." Doreah stood, gathering their trenchers. "As do I."
The reminder stung. Doreah had given up her comfortable position in Illyrio's manse, risked everything to help Daenerys escape. And how had Daenerys repaid her? By dragging her to this squalid inn where they shared a room barely large enough for two narrow beds.
"I know." Daenerys caught Doreah's wrist as she passed. "I'm grateful, truly. Without you and Ser Jorah..." She thought of Khal Drogo's massive hands, of what her wedding night would have been. "I owe you both my life."
Doreah's smile transformed her face, making her look even younger than her sixteen years. "You owe me nothing, my lady. I chose this path." She balanced the trenchers against her hip. "I'll return these to the kitchen. Try to rest. You barely slept last night."
After Doreah left, Daenerys moved to the window. Below, a narrow boat poled through the canal, its owner singing in the bastard Valyrian that Braavosi called their own tongue. She'd learned enough to understand basic phrases, but the rapid-fire dialect still eluded her. Another reminder that she was a stranger here, despite her Valyrian blood.
The knock came soft, almost tentative. Daenerys turned from the window, assuming Doreah had forgotten something. She crossed the room in three quick steps and pulled open the door.
The woman standing in the hallway made Daenerys step back. She wore robes of deep red samite that seemed to shimmer in the dim light, but it was the mask that stole Daenerys's breath. Lacquered wood, painted in blacks and golds to form a woman's face more beautiful and terrible than any living features could be. The eyes behind it glittered like stars.
"Daenerys Stormborn." The woman's voice emerged from behind the mask like smoke from a brazier. "May I enter?"
Daenerys's fingers found the door's edge, ready to slam it shut. "How…who are you? What do you want?"
"I am Quaithe." The masked woman tilted her head, and the hallway's shadows seemed to bend around her. "I mean you no harm, child of dragons. Quite the opposite."
Every instinct screamed danger, but something else pulled at Daenerys. The same feeling that came when she touched the dragon eggs, that sense of standing at the edge of something vast and ancient.
"How do you know who I am?"
"The blood of Old Valyria calls to those who know how to listen." Quaithe gestured to the room beyond. "May I? The hallway has many ears, and what I would share is for you alone."
Against her better judgment, Daenerys stepped aside. Quaithe glided past her, bringing a scent of cinnamon and something else, something that made Daenerys think of the red wastes beyond the Dothraki sea.
Quaithe moved to the center of the small room, her robes pooling around her like spilled wine. "You dream of ice and fire."
Daenerys's breath caught. She closed the door, her back pressed against it. "How could you know that?"
A sound emerged from behind the mask that might have been laughter. "Dreams? Child, what you see are not dreams but echoes of what will be." Quaithe's fingers traced patterns in the air, and the candlelight bent wrong, throwing shadows that moved independent of flame. "The wolf with eyes like winter storms—you see him wreathed in ice that burns. The young lord who commands hearts as easily as breathing. And the golden-haired stranger who walks between stars."
"You're speaking nonsense." But Daenerys's voice came out thin. The room had grown cold despite the brazier's heat.
"Am I?" Quaithe rose from the bed, her robes rustling like dried leaves. "Tell me you haven't felt him reaching for you across the narrow sea. Tell me you haven't heard the song that has no words, only fire."
The floor seemed to tilt. Daenerys gripped the doorframe. "How can you—"
"The blood knows what the blood knows." Quaithe moved closer, bringing that cinnamon scent mixed with something metallic. "Your house conquered with fire and blood, but the wolves? They remember older magics. When ice meets fire, when the dragon takes the wolf..." She paused, head tilting. "But there is another. One who carries light from distant stars. He teaches them to touch power your ancestors never dreamed."
"Who?" The word scraped past Daenerys's throat. "Who teaches them?"
"Names have power, sweet child. Some truths must be earned, not given." Quaithe's mask caught the firelight, making the painted features seem almost alive. "But know this—when you stand before the heart tree with snow in your hair and dragons once again roam the skies, you will understand why the stranger came to this world."
"Stop." Daenerys's voice cracked. She'd only told two about those visions, so how can she know. "What do you want from me?"
"Want?" Quaithe settled onto Doreah's bed as if it were a throne. "I want nothing, sweet child. I simply wish to see where your journey leads."
"Speak plainly. I've no patience for riddles."
"Then I shall give you truth, though you may find it harder to bear than riddles." Quaithe's masked face turned toward the window. "The wolf comes to the water dancer's domain. Stone and salt, ice and fire. Your path to the sunset lands is already woven into the pattern."
"The sunset lands?" Daenerys moved closer despite herself. "You mean Westeros? But how? We have no ship, no gold..."
"The wolf seeks the coin masters. When winter's lord walks among the freed, the daughter of dragons must be ready." Quaithe's head tilted. "Your children sleep now, but they will wake in flame and blood."
Daenerys's hands clenched. "The eggs. You know about the eggs. Tell me how to wake them. Please."
"Fire and blood, as your house words promise. But first..." Quaithe stood in one fluid motion. "First you must survive the betrayal."
"Betrayal?" Daenerys's mind raced. "You mean Ser Jorah? No. He's sworn to me. He helped me escape, risked everything—"
Laughter spilled from behind the mask, bright and sharp as breaking glass. "Oh, sweet summer child. The bear is many things, but he is not your betrayer. Tell me, why does it take so long to return dishes to a kitchen one floor below?"
The words snapped Daenerys from her confusion. She staggered, catching herself against the wall. "No. Doreah would never..."
"The Lyseni bird has already sung her song to those who would cage the dragon." Quaithe moved toward the door. "Illyrio's gold speaks louder than friendship. The hunters gather below even now, waiting for her signal."
"You're lying." But even as Daenerys spoke, details clicked into place. How Doreah always volunteered to go to the market alone. Her questions about the dragon eggs, where Daenerys kept them. The way she'd insisted they stay at this particular inn.
"Believe or disbelieve as you will." Quaithe paused at the door. "But if you value your freedom, you will take your children and flee through the kitchen's back door. Now."
"Where would I go? I don't even know where Ser Jorah—"
Daenerys turned to find the room empty. The door stood closed, as if Quaithe had never been there at all. Only the lingering scent of cinnamon proved she hadn't dreamed the entire encounter.
From below came the sound of boots on stairs. Multiple sets, moving with purpose.
Daenerys didn't hesitate. She dropped to her knees, prying up the loose floorboard with her fingernails. The three eggs lay wrapped in what remained of her wedding silks, still warm to the touch. She stuffed them into a cloth sack, adding the three silver dragons and the small knife Jorah had given her.
The footsteps grew louder. Men's voices now, speaking in the guttural Pentoshi dialect.
Daenerys slung the sack over her shoulder and slipped into the hallway. Instead of heading toward the main stairs, she turned left, toward the servants' stair that led to the kitchen. Her bare feet made no sound on the worn wood.
The kitchen blazed with heat from two massive ovens. A cook looked up from his pot, but Daenerys didn't slow. She pushed through the back door into an alley that reeked of rotting fish and worse.
Behind her, something crashed. The door to her room being kicked in, most likely. She ran, the sack bouncing against her back with each step. The eggs seemed to pulse with heat, as if sensing her fear.
"There! The back!"
The shout came from the inn. Daenerys ran harder, her shortened hair whipping around her face. She turned left at the first intersection, then right at the next, trying to remember the route to the Keyo warehouses. Jorah had pointed them out once from their window, but the city looked different from street level.
The sound of pursuit grew closer. She glanced back to see three men round the corner, all carrying naked steel.
"Girl! Stop!"
Daenerys ran faster, her lungs burning. The canal appeared ahead, one of the larger ones with a bridge. If she could cross it, lose them in the maze of streets beyond...
She turned the corner at full speed and slammed into something solid. Not something—someone. A woman, but built like a mountain, with dark skin and arms thick as tree trunks.
Daenerys bounced off her and would have fallen if hands hadn't caught her arms. A man, younger than Jorah but with the same warrior's bearing. His face bore old scars, and his eyes were the grey-green of the Narrow Sea.
"Whoa there!" He steadied her while looking at the woman while the giant woman rubbed her stomach where Daenerys had collided with her. "I keep telling you to watch where you are going."
"Wasn't my fault," the woman grumbled. "Girl came out of nowhere."
"Please." Daenerys gasped for breath. "Please, there are men. They're after me."
The man's expression shifted from amusement to alertness in an instant. His hand moved to his sword as three bounty hunters rounded the corner, pulling up short when they saw the group.
"Stand aside," the lead hunter said in accented Common Tongue. "The girl comes with us."
The man glanced at his companion, something passing between them that needed no words. He turned back to the hunters with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Now, that's interesting. See, where I come from, we don't hand over frightened girls to men with drawn steel."
"This is not your concern, Westerosi." The hunter took a step forward. "Give us the girl and walk away. No one needs to die."
The giant woman laughed, a sound like boulders tumbling down a mountain. "Oh, I like this one. He thinks he's frightening." She pulled a curved sword from her back, the blade gleaming despite the overcast sky. "Should we tell him how wrong he is?"
"Seems only polite," the man agreed.
The woman moved faster than someone her size had any right to. Her blade took the nearest hunter across the throat before he could raise his guard. Blood sprayed across the alley's walls.
The scarred man flowed forward like water, his sword meeting the second hunter's desperate parry. But where the hunter fought with brute force, the Westerosi fought with skill. His blade slipped past the hunter's guard and into his heart.
The third hunter, the one who'd spoken, looked at his dead companions and made the only sensible choice. He ran.
The woman cleaned her blade on one of the corpses' tunics. "Amateurs."
The man sheathed his sword and turned to Daenerys. "I'm Asher Forrester, and this charming lady is Beskha. You were heading somewhere before you ran into us?"
"The Keyo estates." Daenerys's voice shook. "I have a friend there."
"Lucky for you, we've got business with a spice merchant near there." Beskha examined the bodies with professional interest. "Might want to move before the Braavosi guard shows up. They get touchy about corpses in their streets."
"Thank you." Daenerys clutched the sack tighter, feeling the eggs' warmth through the cloth. "I don't know how to repay—"
"Don't thank us yet," Asher said, already moving. "Day's not over, and in my experience, trouble likes company."
As they walked through Braavos's twisting streets, Daenerys thought of Quaithe's words. The wolf lord. Could she have meant Lord Stark? But what would the Warden of the North want in Braavos?
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8 ABY
Rakata Prime, Unknown Regions
The Millennium Falcon groaned as it fought the atmosphere of Rakata Prime. The descent rattled Leia’s teeth. She gripped the worn leather of the co-pilot’s seat until her knuckles turned white. Her other hand drifted instinctively to the swell of her belly beneath her tunic.
The world below offered a lie of peace. Through the viewport, the planet was an endless expanse of blue ocean dotted with green islands. It looked nothing like the charred and war-torn worlds they had visited in their hunt for Luke.
"Remember," Han said. He adjusted the deflector shields with a flick of his wrist. "We are just a cargo crew making a delivery. There is nothing special about us."
Chewie let out a low rumble from the pilot’s chair. It sounded distinctly like a mockery of a laugh.
Leia caught the Wookiee’s eye. She rolled her own in return.
"I remember, Han. You have mentioned it ten times since we broke orbit." She shifted in her seat. The crash webbing dug into her shoulder. Comfort was a luxury she had not known in months. "We are humble merchants delivering medical supplies to a research station."
Han’s jaw tightened. "Just making sure. The last thing we need is an Imperial Remnant warlord getting curious about why Princess Leia Organa is poking around the Unknown Regions."
The concern in his voice took the edge off her irritation. She reached over. Her fingers brushed the rough fabric of his sleeve.
"I know. I will be careful."
"You are worried about Luke."
It was not a question. Han Solo knew her too well. He knew the ghosts that haunted her sleep and the shadows that lingered behind her eyes.
"It has been over a year." The words came out quieter than she intended. "No word. No message. Nothing."
She closed her eyes. She reached out with her feelings to find that invisible thread connecting her to her twin. It was frayed and stretched thin across the stars.
"He is alive," she whispered. "I can feel him through the Force. He is distant, but he is alive."
Han took her hand. His thumb rubbed gentle circles against her palm.
"Knowing the kid, he is probably knee-deep in some adventure. He is likely saving a whole system single-handed and is too busy playing hero to check in."
Despite the weight in her chest, she smiled. Trust Han to make light of her fears while still acknowledging the truth of them. She squeezed his hand and drew strength from his familiar calluses.
"The probability of Master Luke surviving in the Unknown Regions for thirteen months without supplies or communication is approximately..."
"Threepio," Han groaned. "If you finish that sentence I am switching you off."
"...three point seven percent," C-3PO finished. The droid seemed oblivious to the threat. "Oh dear. I do hope R2-D2 is functioning properly. That little astromech was never designed for extended isolation in hostile environments."
Han’s hand met his forehead with a sharp smack. "Leia. Please. Just until we land?"
She turned in her seat to fix the golden droid with a look that could have frozen the lava flows of Mustafar.
"Threepio. Perhaps now would be a good time to run a full diagnostic on your language circuits. Silently."
"Oh. Yes. Of course, Princess Leia. I shall begin immediately." The droid’s photoreceptors dimmed as he turned his attention inward.
The Falcon bucked violently as they hit a pocket of heat turbulence. Leia’s stomach lurched. The morning sickness was supposed to have passed weeks ago yet her body refused to accept the truce. Han noticed the sway immediately. His hand left the controls to steady her shoulder.
"You okay?"
"Fine." She swallowed hard and willed her stomach to settle. "Just the air."
His expression said he did not believe her for a second.
"You should have stayed on Coruscant. Mon Mothma would have understood. The Senate needs you."
"Do not." She pulled her hand away. "We have had this argument. Without me you would not even know where to start looking. The Force is guiding us here for a reason."
"The Force is not growing our children." His voice dropped low. It was a rough sound, a mix of frustration and fear that only he could manage. "You are five months along, Leia. This is dangerous."
"Everything we do is dangerous. That did not stop us before."
"Before, you were not..." He gestured vaguely at her midsection. He seemed unable to find the right words.
"Pregnant? I had not noticed." She softened her tone. "Han, I need to find him. He is my brother. He is the uncle to these children. I cannot just sit in a tower on Coruscant wondering if he is dead."
The landing platform appeared through the clouds. It was a square of grey duracrete carved into the tropical forest. Han guided the ship down with his usual skill. The Falcon settled with a heavy metallic thud.
Through the viewport, Leia saw the research station. It was a cluster of prefab buildings that looked distinctly Imperial in design. Only the New Republic flag flying from the communications tower suggested otherwise.
"Alright." Han powered down the sub-light engines. He spun his chair to face her fully. "Here is how this goes. Chewie and I handle the delivery. We ask the questions. You and Goldenrod stay with the ship."
"Han, I can..."
"No arguments." He held up a hand. "We do not know who runs this place. It could be Republic or it could be Imperial holdouts. It could be something worse. Until we know, you stay here where it is safe."
One of the babies shifted. It pressed hard against her bladder. She grimaced. Another stellar aspect of pregnancy the medics had failed to warn her about.
She wanted to argue. Every instinct screamed at her to take charge. She wanted to strap on her belt and lead from the front as she always had. But then the movement came again. It was a flutter like wings against her ribs. There were two distinct kicks this time. She remembered she was not making decisions for just herself anymore.
"Fine." The word tasted like defeat. "But if you are not back in two hours I am coming after you."
"Fair enough." He leaned over and kissed her forehead. His lips lingered for a moment. "Lock up behind us. Keep the engines warm just in case. Keep the blaster close and your lightsaber closer."
"I know how to defend myself." The words came out sharper than she intended.
"Yeah. Well." He turned back. She caught the tightness around his eyes and the way his jaw worked. "Humor me. Keep them where you can reach them. Both of them."
Chewie rumbled his agreement. The Wookiee checked his bowcaster and gave her a reassuring growl. He would keep Han safe. He always did.
She watched them head down the boarding ramp. Han had his familiar swagger, but it was dampened by the hand that hovered too close to the blaster on his hip. The ramp sealed with a hiss. It left her alone with the silent droid and her churning thoughts.
She reached out through the Force again. She searched for that distant spark that was Luke. It was still there. It was still alive. Yet it felt so far away it was like trying to touch starlight with a bare hand. Whatever world he had found and whatever trouble he had walked into, she could only hope he was managing better than they were.
A strong kick struck her right side. Then a second kick hit her left.
She rubbed the spots absently.
"Your uncle better have a good explanation for this when we find him," she whispered.
Outside, the tropical sun beat down on the hull. Somewhere in that station, answers waited. She just had to trust Han to find them.
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The cantina stank of stale ale and unwashed bodies, a familiar cocktail that reminded Han of a dozen backwater ports across the galaxy. He shouldered through the crowd, noting the exits first—old smuggler's habit that had saved his skin more times than he cared to count. Chewie's massive frame blocked the doorway behind him, keeping watch while Han worked.
The place was packed. Weequay pirates hunched over sabacc cards, a pair of Rodians argued in their clicking language near the bar, and something that might have been human nursed a bottle in the corner. Standard rough crowd for a place like this. Nobody gave him a second glance, which was exactly how he liked it.
Han slid onto a barstool, the worn synthleather creaking under his weight. The bartender, a grizzled human with more scars than teeth, was busy pretending to clean glasses while obviously eavesdropping on two pirates at the bar's far end.
"Corellian whiskey," Han said, sliding a credit chip across the sticky bar surface. "The real stuff, not that synthetic garbage."
The bartender grunted, still focused on his other customers. Han caught fragments of their conversation—something about ravagers and salvage rights. His hand stilled halfway to his pocket.
"...still searching the whole damn sector," one of the pirates growled, his voice rough from too much drink or too much shouting. "Over a year now. Boss says that X-wing's worth more than a year's haul."
The other pirate, younger with a fresh blaster burn across his jaw, snorted. "X-wing's probably scrap by now. Nobody survives a ravager pack."
"Boss don't care about the pilot. Wants the ship. Says it's got modifications worth a fortune to the right buyer."
Han's chest tightened. Luke's X-wing. Had to be. The kid had tinkered with that fighter until it was more custom job than factory standard. He forced his expression neutral, accepting the whiskey the bartender finally poured with steady hands.
"Interesting conversation," Han said casually, loud enough for the bartender to hear. He slid another credit chip across, this one worth considerably more. "I'm in the salvage business myself. Might be interested in beating them to the prize."
The bartender's eyes flicked between Han and the credits. Greed won, as it usually did.
"Last confirmed sighting was three parsecs out, near the Plathos Nebula," the bartender muttered, pocketing the credits with practiced speed. "Ravagers lost the trail when it jumped to hyperspace, but the jump vector was damaged. Couldn't have gone far."
"How long ago?"
"Year, maybe thirteen months. But like they said, ravagers are still looking. Must think it came down somewhere in this system."
Han knocked back the whiskey in one burning gulp. Thirteen months. Luke had been missing thirteen months, and these scum were hunting his ship like vultures after carrion. The glass hit the bar harder than he intended.
"Thanks for the drink."
He stood, tossing another credit on the bar for appearances. The pirates were still arguing about salvage splits, oblivious to his interest. Good. The last thing he needed was competition or questions.
As he turned to leave, movement caught his eye. A woman in the corner, the one he'd dismissed as just another spacer, was rising from her table. Tan cloak, hood up, moving with the kind of purposeful grace that meant trouble. But Han had bigger concerns than mysterious women. Luke was out there somewhere, and now he had a lead.
He pushed through the crowd toward Chewie, his mind already calculating jump vectors and fuel requirements. The Plathos Nebula was a big area, but if Luke's hyperdrive was damaged, he'd have looked for the nearest habitable system. That narrowed it down to maybe a dozen possibilities.
"We got something," he muttered to Chewie as they headed back toward the Falcon. The Wookiee rumbled a question, but Han shook his head. "Tell you on the ship. We need to move fast."
Han's thoughts raced ahead to Leia. She'd want to leave immediately, pregnant or not. And he'd let her, because when it came to family, to Luke, there was no stopping her. The kid better be alive, because if Han had to tell his wife her brother was dead, if he had to watch her grieve while carrying their child...
He pushed the thought away. Luke was too stubborn to die. Had to be.
Behind them, unnoticed, the woman in the tan cloak followed at a careful distance, her footsteps silent on the duracrete landing platform.
Comments
Ragnar
I'm going to need them to fly in during the battle for dawn so a maester can send a letter to kings landing saying something along the lines of "the battle was lost until the seven sent the aluminum falcon"
Bedivere
So the gang is closing in on Luke, it'll be hilarious if they land in Winterfell before Jon and Luke get back I can just picture Lady Catelyn reaction now, "Master Luke do you want to explain why a pregnant princess, a scruffy pirate, a talking suit of gold armor and their seven foot tall sentient fur rug is looking for you,".....wait Luke is going to be scolded by Cat and Leia at the same time....may God have mercy on his soul
Full Horizon
🤐
Full Horizon
Yet but things have turned out different so far!
IS6A6E
He's been in Westeros for over a year now? I didn't know it was that long.
IS6A6E
Is that Mara Jade?
