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[Look To The Stars] Chapter 26: The Art of Seeing Truth
🕑 Added 2025-08-07 03:09:26 +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: The next chapter is going to a bit...interesting ;D. If you enjoyed this chapter, please give it a like!
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Castle Black, The Wall
The Wall emerged from nothingness, a frozen wave caught mid-crash against the sky. Robb Stark squinted through the swirling snow, his gloved hands tight on the reins as his destrier struggled forward. The blizzard had descended without warning three leagues back, transforming their journey into a blind march through howling white.
"Gods be good," Smalljon bellowed beside him, his voice nearly lost in the wind. "There she stands!"
Seven hundred feet of ice loomed before them, its surface glittering with frost despite the storm. Robb had heard the tales since childhood, but nothing had prepared him for the reality. The Wall stretched beyond sight in both directions, a monument to ancient fear.
Grey Wind pressed against Robb's leg, a low whine escaping the direwolf's throat. The beast's hackles stood rigid, his yellow eyes fixed on the massive barrier.
"What troubles you, boy?" Robb murmured, reaching down to touch the wolf's head.
As his fingers brushed Grey Wind's fur, Robb reached for the Force as Luke had taught him. He closed his eyes, letting his awareness expand beyond his physical senses. The world transformed—each of his men became a point of light, their courage and exhaustion pulsing together. Grey Wind burned brighter, his presence intertwined with Robb's own.
But beyond the Wall... nothing. Where there should have been the song of countless lives, Robb sensed only emptiness as if there was a void that simply felt hungry. Something lurked within that cold nothingness, watching and waiting. Robb's eyes snapped open, his breath catching.
"My lord?" Ser Wendel Manderly asked, his usually jovial face creased with concern. "Are you well?"
"Fine," Robb lied, his voice steady. A lord could not show fear before his men. "Just eager to reach Castle Black."
The black brothers had spotted them. A horn blasted once, the sound carrying clear despite the storm. The gates of Castle Black groaned open to receive them.
"Make way for the Stark!" someone shouted as they rode into the courtyard.
Men in black cloaks gathered around them but it was a sorry sight compared to the armies Robb had imagined in boyhood tales. These were no noble defenders but criminals and cast-offs, thin-faced and hard-eyed. Some looked no older than Robb himself, while others were greybeards with missing fingers and limbs. Yet behind their weathered faces, Robb glimpsed something fierce and desperate—men who had found purpose in their exile.
Grey Wind growled, circling close to Robb's horse. The direwolf's unease deepened Robb's own disquiet.
"Lord Stark." A grizzled man with a shaved head stepped forward. "I'm Ser Alliser Thorne, master-at-arms. The Lord Commander awaits you in his tower."
The Smalljon dismounted with a grunt. "Your hospitality overwhelms us, Ser Alliser," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Robb shot Smalljon a warning glance as he swung down from his saddle. "We're grateful for shelter from the storm, ser," he said. "My lords and I would speak with Lord Commander Mormont at once."
"As you wish." Thorne's expression suggested he'd tasted something foul. "This way."
The Lord Commander's tower stood taller than the surrounding structures, though it remained modest compared to Winterfell's towers. As they climbed the creaking wooden stairs, Robb sensed Grey Wind's growing agitation. The direwolf refused to follow, remaining in the courtyard despite the swirling snow.
"Lord Robb Stark," Thorne announced as they entered Mormont's chambers, "and the many lords of the North."
Jeor Mormont sat behind a scarred wooden table, maps spread before him. The Old Bear looked up, his weathered face betraying no surprise at their arrival. A raven perched on his shoulder, its black feathers ruffled against the cold.
"Snow," the bird croaked. "Snow, snow."
"Lord Stark." Mormont nodded toward the empty chairs. "I didn't expect to meet you so soon after your father. And with so many companions."
Robb kept his face neutral as he took a seat. "My father rides for King's Landing to address certain... concerns with the crown. As acting Lord of Winterfell, I felt it necessary to see the situation at the Wall for myself."
"Snow," the raven said again, hopping from Mormont's shoulder to the table. "Snow."
The Old Bear reached for a flagon of ale and poured cups for each of them. "You've come at a grim time, my lord. The wildlings mass beyond the Wall as never before. Mance Rayder calls himself King-Beyond-the-Wall, and the free folk answer."
"Then we must strengthen your defenses," Harrion Karstark said, leaning forward. "How many men do you need to hold the Wall?"
Mormont's laugh held no humor. "More than the North could spare, Lord Karstark. We have fewer than a thousand men spread across nineteen castles. Most stand abandoned."
The Smalljon slammed his cup down. "My grandfather rode north when Raymund Redbeard crossed the Wall. The Umbers and mountain clans bloodied the wildlings at Long Lake."
"And we can do so again," Cley Cerwyn added.
Robb studied Mormont's face. The old man's eyes revealed more than his words—this was a test. The Lord Commander had dealt with green lordlings before and found them wanting.
"My lords," Robb said carefully, "before we discuss battle plans, I would hear Lord Commander Mormont's full assessment."
The raven hopped closer to Robb. "Snow, snow, snow."
"Your uncle understood what we face, Lord Stark," Mormont said. "Do you?"
Robb thought of his meditation that morning at Winterfell, the vision of blue-eyed corpses shambling through endless snow. He thought of his father's grim face when he spoke of Ser Waymar's corpse rising at Castle Black.
"The wildlings flee something worse than winter," Robb said quietly. "My father witnessed it himself. The Others have returned, and the dead rise to serve them."
The chamber fell silent. Galbart Glover shifted uncomfortably, while Karstark's face hardened with skepticism.
"Tales to frighten children," Rickard Ryswell muttered.
"I've seen a dead man walk," Mormont countered. "So has your liege lord. Your ancestor built this Wall to keep out more than raiders and giants."
"So you would have us ignore the wildling threat?" the Smalljon demanded.
"I would have you understand it," Mormont replied sharply. "Mance gathers the free folk to flee south, not to conquer. Every wildling who dies north of the Wall rises again with blue eyes."
Robb closed his eyes, reaching into the Force. Luke had taught him to sense emotions, to find the currents of truth beneath spoken words. Mormont believed what he said—fear and grim certainty radiated from him. But the Northern lords bristled with pride and doubt.
"My lords," Robb said, opening his eyes. "We must consider that the wildlings and the Watch share a common enemy."
"You suggest we allow savages past the Wall?" Harrion's voice rose. "They've raided our lands for thousands of years!"
"I suggest nothing yet," Robb replied evenly. "First, we must see the evidence for ourselves. How many rangers have you lost, Lord Commander?"
"Too many," Mormont answered. "Your uncle Benjen among them."
A pang of grief shot through Robb. Uncle Benjen had always been kind to him, bringing gifts from beyond the Wall and tales of rangers' exploits.
"I would send a ranging party," Mormont continued. "Find Benjen if we can, and learn the truth of what gathers in the Frostfangs."
"My lords and I will join this ranging," Robb declared.
The chamber erupted in protests—from the Northern lords wanting immediate action against the wildlings, from Mormont insisting the dangers were too great for Winterfell's heir.
"The decision is made," Robb said, rising to his feet. The force of his will pushed into his voice without conscious thought, a technique Luke had shown him for leadership. The arguments faltered. "We ride in three days' time, after we've rested our horses and prepared supplies."
Mormont studied him with newfound respect. "As you command, Lord Stark. Though your father may have my head for allowing it."
"My father left me to protect the North," Robb replied. "I cannot protect what I do not understand."
As the lords filed out, still grumbling among themselves, the raven suddenly launched from the table and landed heavily on Robb's shoulder. Its black eyes fixed on his, uncomfortably intelligent.
"Snow," it croaked, softer now. "Fire. Blood. King."
Robb felt a chill that had nothing to do with the chamber's temperature. Through the Force, he sensed something within the bird—a presence both ancient and aware, watching him with calculated interest. Not simply an animal, but something else entirely.
The raven's head tilted, as though listening to thoughts Robb hadn't spoken. Its beak opened again.
"Brother," it whispered, so quietly Robb nearly missed it.
Mormont frowned. "Strange. The bird rarely takes to strangers."
"I do have a way with animals," Robb joked, keeping his voice steady despite his unease.
The raven's talons tightened briefly on his shoulder before it launched back toward Mormont. Robb couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just been measured by it.
"We should prepare for the ranging, Lord Commander," Robb said. "The dead won't wait while we debate."
Outside the tower, Grey Wind padded to Robb's side, yellow eyes fixed on the raven watching from Mormont's window. The direwolf's growl rumbled like distant thunder, confirming what Robb already knew.
Something or someone is watching them.
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Winterfell, The North
Sansa stared at the smooth stone resting on her palm, willing it to rise. The afternoon sun filtered through the godswood's canopy, dappling the ground with shifting patterns of light. For what felt like the hundredth time, she envisioned the stone floating upward, picturing it suspended in the air as Master Luke had taught them.
The stone wobbled slightly, rose perhaps the width of a finger, then clattered back onto her palm.
"You're thinking too much," Arya said, crossing her arms. Her hair was windblown, her cheeks flushed from their earlier exercises. "The stone doesn't care about your perfect posture or pretty thoughts."
"I'm trying," Sansa replied, unable to keep the frustration from her voice. "Not all of us can be naturally talented at everything."
Arya snorted. "Naturally talented? I practice for hours when you're brushing your hair or stitching handkerchiefs."
The stone trembled again as Sansa concentrated, her brow furrowing with effort. It rose perhaps two fingers' width before dropping once more. She'd been at this for nearly an hour, and had yet to hold it aloft for more than a few heartbeats.
"Master Luke says the Force flows through everything," Bran said quietly from where he sat against the heart tree. "You're trying to control it like you'd control thread on a loom."
"What would you have me do instead?" Sansa asked, unable to keep a note of irritation from her voice. Even Bran, her little brother, had surpassed her in these strange abilities.
"Trust it," Bran said simply. "Stop trying to make it perfect."
Sansa frowned. She'd learned there was safety in control, in perfect courtesy, in knowing exactly what to say and how to act.
"Here," Arya said suddenly, standing. "Let's try something different. Stand up."
Sansa rose smoothly, brushing leaves from her skirts. "What now?"
"Turn around and fall backward."
"I beg your pardon?" Sansa's eyes widened.
"Turn around and fall backward," Arya repeated with exaggerated patience. "And catch yourself with the Force."
"That's absurd. I'll hurt myself."
"Not if you trust the Force," Bran said. "I've done it. Arya too."
Sansa looked between her siblings, certain they were playing some trick. "This is ridiculous."
"You can't always plan everything," Arya insisted. "Sometimes you have to just... react."
"Master Luke says the Force is strongest when we stop thinking and just feel," Bran added.
With great reluctance, Sansa turned around. She stood rigid, unable to convince herself to fall. The ground seemed suddenly very hard, the distance to it somehow greater than before.
"We're wasting daylight," Arya sighed. "If you're too frightened—"
"I'm not frightened," Sansa snapped, though her racing heart suggested otherwise.
She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing as Master Luke had taught them. She could sense Arya and Bran behind her, feel the ancient presence of the heart tree, even the small creatures moving through the underbrush nearby.
"Let go," Bran whispered.
Sansa tilted backward slightly, then caught herself. This was foolishness. She couldn't possibly—
A sharp memory surfaced: the assassin's blade against her throat, the paralyzing terror, and then something inside her reaching out, pushing, in the instant before Master Luke arrived. She hadn't had time to think then.
Sansa exhaled and let herself fall.
For a terrible moment, there was nothing but air and the sensation of falling. Her heart leapt into her throat. Then, almost without thought, she reached out with something beyond her hands—a sense, a feeling—and her descent slowed. She didn't stop completely, but when she finally touched the ground, it was with the gentleness of a feather landing on snow.
She lay there, staring up at the red leaves of the heart tree, a startled laugh escaping her lips.
"You did it!" Bran clapped.
"Not bad," Arya admitted, the ghost of a smile on her face as she extended a hand to help Sansa up. "You stopped planning and just... reacted."
"It felt..." Sansa searched for the words as she rose to her feet. "It felt like singing, almost. Like something moved through me rather than me moving it."
"That's the Force," Bran nodded.
Sansa picked up the stone again. This time, instead of trying to command it, she simply felt its weight, its texture, and then imagined it as part of herself. The stone rose from her palm, hovering steadily at eye level.
"One minute," Arya counted, watching closely. "Keep going."
When the stone finally descended, Sansa felt oddly lightheaded yet exhilarated. "I did it."
"You did," Bran agreed, his expression thoughtful. "But as Master Luke says, practice makes perfect."
The light was fading as they made their way back toward the castle, two Stark guards falling in behind them. Sansa recognized Tomard by his girth, but the other was newer—one of several men Mother had hired since Father left for Kingslanding.
"Have you noticed the new guards?" Bran asked quietly, his voice barely audible.
Sansa glanced sideways at her brother. "What about them?"
"Something's off," Bran murmured. "The way they watch us. Especially the odd looking one."
Sansa thought of the guard he mentioned—pale eyes that makes her skin crawl. Just yesterday, she'd found him outside her chamber door when he had no reason to be in that part of the castle.
"I've felt it too," she admitted. "When he looks at me, it's like... like when you step on ice and hear it crack beneath you."
"What are you two whispering about?" Arya asked, dropping back to walk beside them.
"The new guards," Bran replied. "The one with the broad nose."
Arya's face hardened in a way that reminded Sansa startlingly of their father. "I've seen him watching Sansa. Following her sometimes."
"Mother hired them," Sansa said uncertainly.
"Doesn't mean they're loyal," Arya retorted. "Not everyone who bows and says 'my lady' means it."
The realization sent a chill through Sansa. Once, she would have dismissed such talk as Arya being difficult. Now, after Joffrey, after the assassin, she found herself unable to dismiss the unease that settled in her stomach whenever that guard was near.
"What should we do?" she asked.
"Tell Robb when he returns," Bran suggested. "Or Mother."
Arya's hand drifted to Needle, sheathed at her hip despite Mother's disapproval. "If they try anything—if they even think of hurting you—I'll take care of them."
There was something in her sister's voice that made Sansa look at her anew. Not the wild little girl who ruined her needlework and put frogs in her bed, but someone fiercer, more dangerous. Someone who, despite all their quarrels, would fight for her without hesitation.
"We should hurry back," Sansa said, oddly moved. "It'll be dark soon."
As they approached the Hunter's Gate, Sansa felt the broad nose guard's pale eyes follow her. This time, instead of looking away, she met his gaze directly, drawing on the same instinct that had helped her with the stone. Something cold and calculating lurked behind his respectful nod, a dissonance between appearance and truth that reminded her horribly of Joffrey.
In that moment, she knew with absolute certainty: Arya was right. Not all enemies announced themselves with drawn swords. Some hid behind courtesies as false as their smiles, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
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The Sunset Sea
Jon danced across the weathered deck of the merchant cog, his wooden practice sword cutting precise arcs through the salt-laden dawn air. The coast of the Reach stretched beyond the starboard rail—a golden line beneath a sky streaked with purple and orange. He focused on his breath, on the controlled rhythm of his movements as he performed the basic Vaapad forms Master Luke had taught him.
Channel your anger, don't suppress it. Guide it like a river, not a wildfire.
Sweat beaded on his brow despite the morning chill. Each strike carried the weight of his newfound heritage—Rhaegar Targaryen's son, not Eddard Stark's bastard. The bitter truth sliced deeper than any blade.
Ghost lounged near the mast, red eyes half-closed but ever watchful. Jon could feel him through their connection, a calm presence amidst Jon's inner storm.
From the corner of his eye, Jon spotted Falia Flowers perched in the rigging. Her hair caught the breeze as she tracked his movements with the sharp eyes of someone accustomed to noting every detail of her surroundings. He'd seen that same watchfulness in the wildling woman Osha, a survivor's instinct.
Jon finished the form with a flourish, bringing his practice sword to rest at his side. His breath came in controlled pants as he rolled his shoulders, working out the tension.
"That's not fighting. Not like any I've seen," Falia called, descending from her perch with practiced ease. She dropped the last few feet to the deck, landing with a soft thud. "What do you call those movements?"
Jon wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "Just something my teacher showed me."
"From his eastern homeland?" She approached, her eyes narrowed with calculation. "The same eastern lands where men throw men without touching them and destroy harbors with a gesture?"
Jon's mouth went dry. He'd hoped the chaos of their escape from Oakenshield would have left confusion rather than clarity.
"I wanted to thank you," Falia continued, her voice softening slightly. "For helping me escape that... situation with the Merchant Lanett."
"It was Master Luke who—"
"It was all of you," she cut in. "But there's something you're not telling me. Something about what you can do." She gestured vaguely toward his practice sword. "No man moves like that. And your white wolf..." She glanced at Ghost, who had risen to his feet, padding silently toward Jon. "He's no ordinary beast."
Jon shifted uncomfortably, sweat cooling on his skin in the salt-tinged breeze. The deck beneath his boots creaked with the ship's gentle roll. "You know, in the North we have a saying, 'When the wolves come out to play, best not ask what game they're hunting.'" His voice carried forced lightness, but his hand instinctively found Ghost's thick fur. "Though I suppose that loses something when there's an actual wolf present."
"Yes, I think a giant wolf helps with that." Falia replied flatly. "But destroying a harbor with a wave of a hand?" She stepped closer. "What kind of sorcery is that? Red priests? Warlocks from Qarth?"
Ghost pressed against Jon's leg, sensing his agitation.
"Some questions are dangerous to ask, Lady Falia."
Jon nearly jumped. Master Luke had appeared behind them, silent as a shadow almost trying to demonstrate the very abilities in question. His voice was gentle but firm, the tone he used when teaching difficult lessons.
Falia whirled to face him, but to her credit, showed no fear. "Then teach me to be dangerous too."
Jon blinked in surprise. This was not the response he'd expected.
Falia moved closer to Luke, her fingers brushing his arm. "A woman needs protection in this world. And you're... different from other men." Her voice carried a sweetness that hadn't been there before.
Jon watched Luke's expression cycle through several emotions as Falia's fingers lingered on his arm. Understanding flickered first, then a brief sadness settled in the creases around his eyes, before resolving into gentle amusement.
"Falia," Luke said softly, stepping back just enough to break the contact without seeming harsh, "you're performing for the wrong audience."
She blinked, confusion crossing her features. Her confident smile faltered. "I don't understand."
"I've known many people across many..." Luke paused, searching for the right word, "places. I recognize when someone's heart pulls toward their own kind."
Jon's brow furrowed, not immediately grasping Luke's meaning. Then understanding struck him like a blow to the chest. The septa at Winterfell had spoken of such women in hushed, condemning tones.
The blood drained from Falia's face. "I don't know what you mean," she said, but her voice had lost its sweetness, replaced by something brittle and fearful.
Jon watched calculation give way to naked terror in her eyes. She backed away, her right hand drifting to the small knife at her belt.
"How could you possibly—" she whispered, glancing around the deck as if afraid someone might be listening. "Who told you?"
"No one told me," Luke said, keeping his distance and his voice low. "But the Force... it shows truths, sometimes."
The tension in Falia's shoulders didn't ease. Her knuckles whitened around the knife's hilt.
"Your secret is safe," Luke continued. "Love is love, in all its forms."
Jon drew a sharp breath. In the North, such things were spoken of rarely, and when they were, it was with disgust. The Faith condemned such unions as abominations, worse even than bastardry.
Tears welled in Falia's eyes—relief and terror mingling. "If Lord Hewett had known..." She didn't finish the thought.
Jon's mind reeled. The teachings of the septons warred with what he knew of the world's cruelties. He thought of how people spat "bastard" when he passed, how even Lady Stark had looked at him as if he were something foul. He thought of the burden of his true parentage, the secret that could see him killed if it ever reached Robert Baratheon's ears.
Through the Force, he sensed Falia's fear—genuine and primal. Not so different from what he'd felt when Lord Stark had told him of his Targaryen blood.
"You have nothing to fear from us," Jon said, stepping forward. He kept his voice steady despite the conflict within him. Ghost padded to his side, red eyes fixed on Falia.
"I know what it's like to be... different," he continued. "To have secrets that could destroy you."
Falia's grip on her knife loosened slightly, but wariness remained in her stance. "If anyone discovers... the Faith, my family..."
"House Stark needs people who understand discretion," Jon said, surprising himself with the offer. "In Winterfell, there are positions away from southern prejudices."
"The North remembers loyalty over all else," he added, echoing words his father—no, his uncle—had often said.
"The Force brought us together for a reason," Luke added, his calm voice adding weight to Jon's offer. "Your skills, your secrets—both have value where we're going."
Falia wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "And what exactly would I do in the frozen North, Snow?"
"Live freely," Jon answered simply.
She considered this, her breathing steadying. "I know the Reach. I can help you navigate Oldtown without drawing attention."
Luke nodded, shifting focus. "We have more immediate concerns. After what happened at Oakenshield, Lord Hewett may have sent ravens ahead to Oldtown. There could be a warrant for our arrest."
"And your wolves are rather... distinctive," Falia added, practical matters seemingly calming her. "Ghost especially."
Jon glanced at Ghost, feeling a pang. "You're right. Ghost and Amidala would draw too much attention."
"We need a cover story," Luke said. "And quickly."
Jon thought for a moment. "I could pose as a minor northern lord seeking maester training."
"And I your personal guard," Luke agreed.
"I can be your maid," Falia offered, her quick thinking showing through her fear. "To keep your household tidy."
"Harwin mentioned he'd found plain sails in the hold, without the Stark direwolf," Jon said. "We can change them before we reach Oldtown."
As the day waned, they finalized their preparations. The hardest part came when Jon knelt before Ghost, burying his fingers in the direwolf's thick white fur.
"You can't come with us to Oldtown, boy," he whispered. Ghost's red eyes regarded him with what seemed like understanding, but the wolf pressed against Jon's chest, reluctant.
Amidala watched Luke with a knowing look, as if she understood the necessity better than Ghost did. Luke had explained that she would stay with his ship, guarding it until their return.
"We'll meet again at the Hightower lighthouse," Jon promised Ghost. "When our business at the Citadel is done."
Falia approached with a knife, having cut her hair even shorter. With her boyish appearance and changed clothes, she looked nothing like Lord Hewett's bastard daughter.
"Well, then," she said, her voice steadier now. "Shall we become someone else?"
Jon nodded, feeling the weight of another identity settling on his shoulders. He was getting uncomfortably good at being someone other than himself.
"To Oldtown," he said, "and whatever waits for us there."
Comments
Car Crash
Sorry, I feeling like something went over my head here. What is Falia here?
Full Horizon
Making them siblings would be interesting but I wouldn't know where to go with that story lol
Bedivere
Well looks like Littlefinger hasn't learned his lesson from last time, his luck is going to run out eventually especially when he meets the one person who can instantly see through all his fake courtesies in careful lies and the second Luke figures out he sent the assassin he's going to wish he stayed on his little plot of land
Hpfanboi
wishful thinking...buttttt....R plus L = J&D....Making these two twins and having a similar story to the OG twins? Meh my mind rants crazy theories....good chapter loved it.
Full Horizon
It’s a mystery alright 🤔
Mandragoran
Good chapter! I wonder who the “guards” can be
