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[Look To The Stars] Chapter 20: Steel and Sorcery
🕑 Added 2025-07-14 06:01:42 +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 :) --------------------------------------------------------
Year 298 AC/7 ABY
The Seas near Sea Dragon Point
Jon clutched the ship's rail with white-knuckled hands, his stomach heaving with each swell of the sea. The salt-laden wind that had seemed so fresh and promising at Deepwood Motte now only intensified his misery, carrying the stench of fish and tar from the decks below. His chest burned with acid, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead despite the chill air.
They never said the sea was so merciless, he thought bitterly. But then, what did he know about the seas?
Ghost pressed against his legs, the direwolf's massive frame uncharacteristically subdued. The beast's red eyes were half-lidded, his usual silent vigilance replaced by quiet suffering. Each time the ship rolled, Ghost would flatten his ears and press closer to Jon, as if seeking comfort from the one creature who shared his distress.
"Not enjoying our voyage, Ghost?" Jon muttered through clenched teeth. "Neither am I."
The Northern Maid, a trading vessel, cut through another wave while sending spray across the bow. Jon's stomach lurched in protest, and he leaned farther over the rail, heaving up what little remained in his belly. Nothing came but bitter bile.
"I see you're becoming acquainted with the sailor's life," Master Luke's voice came from behind, infuriatingly steady and amused.
Jon turned his head just enough to glare at his teacher. Luke stood with his feet planted shoulder-width apart, moving with the ship rather than against it. Even Ghost raised his head to regard the man with what Jon could only interpret as direwolf resentment.
"Is this..." Jon swallowed hard against another wave of nausea, "part of my training too?"
Luke laughed, the sound carried away by the wind. "In a manner of speaking." He moved beside Jon at the rail, his presence solid and untroubled by the ship's constant motion. "The body's reaction to the sea is much like its reaction to fear or pain, something to be acknowledged, then controlled."
"Easy for you to say," Jon growled. "You look like you were born on a ship."
"Hardly. I grew up surrounded by sand, not water." Luke's eyes crinkled at the corners. "But the Force flows through all things, Jon. The sea included."
Jon groaned as another swell lifted the bow. "Right now the only thing flowing through me is misery."
"Focus," Luke said, his voice shifting from casual to instructive. "Close your eyes."
"If I close my eyes, it gets worse."
"Only because you're fighting the ship's motion instead of feeling it." Luke placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "The Force connects you to everything around you—the wood beneath your feet, the water beneath the hull, the rhythm of the waves."
Jon reluctantly closed his eyes, immediately regretting it as darkness amplified the nauseating roll of the deck. His fingers tightened on the rail until the wood creaked in protest.
"Don't resist," Luke continued. "Feel the ship. Become part of its motion rather than its victim."
"I'm trying," Jon snapped, then caught himself. Master Luke had taught him that anger led nowhere useful. He drew a deep breath, ignoring the salt sting in his nostrils. "I'm trying," he repeated, calmer.
"Do or do not," Luke replied with that cryptic half-smile that both infuriated and intrigued Jon. "There is no try."
Jon swallowed his retort and focused inward, seeking that center of stillness Luke had been teaching him to find. The Force was there, as always a current beneath the surface of his awareness, waiting to be channeled. He reached for it, letting his consciousness expand beyond the confines of his rebelling body.
Slowly, the sensations changed. The ship's rise and fall became less an assault on his senses and more a pattern he could anticipate. The wooden deck creaked and groaned, but now Jon heard the rhythm in its complaints—a song of straining timber and stretched rope that told of the sea's movements before they happened.
"Better?" Luke asked quietly.
Jon opened his eyes, surprised to find his nausea had receded to a dull discomfort rather than the knife-edged misery of moments before. "Yes," he admitted. "Though I still don't see why anyone chooses to live on water."
"Some men are drawn to what challenges them." Luke gazed out over the endless gray waves. "The ironborn worship a sea god, don't they?"
"The Drowned God," Jon nodded. "Theon spoke of him sometimes, though never when Lord Stark could hear." The mention of his father? His uncle? Sent a fresh wave of confusion through Jon's mind. He was still sorting through what it meant to be Lyanna's son rather than Ned's.
Ghost stirred at his side, the direwolf's posture less hunched now. Through their bond, Jon sensed the creature's nausea easing as his own did. The wolf shook himself, water droplets flying from his thick white fur.
"Your companion seems to be adapting," Luke observed.
"He feels what I feel, sometimes," Jon said. "Or I feel what he feels. The line blurs."
"A natural Force bond," Luke nodded. "Rare and valuable. Now," He straightened, gesturing toward the center of the deck. "Since you've found your sea legs, it's time we resumed your training."
Jon grimaced. "Here? Now?"
"Is there a better time?" Luke was already moving to a clear space where the mainmast cast its shadow. "The uneven footing will only enhance your balance and adaptability."
With a sigh, Jon pushed away from the rail. The constant motion still bothered him, but with the Force flowing through him, guiding his movements, he found he could walk with reasonable steadiness. Ghost followed, padding silently across the wooden planks with growing confidence.
Luke drew two practice swords from a canvas bundle. Simple wooden wasters, weighted to mimic steel but harmless enough for shipboard training. He tossed one to Jon, who caught it by the hilt.
Jon shifted his stance as Master Luke positioned himself in the center of the deck, wooden practice sword held loosely in his right hand. The ship rolled beneath them, but Jon found his balance now, the Force guiding his movements as naturally as breathing.
"Today," Luke said, "we begin something different. Something that addresses what happened at Winterfell."
Jon felt his jaw tighten. Since the revelation in the crypts, he'd felt a smoldering anger deep within. Even now, the memory of flames dancing between his fingers haunted him.
"I lost control," Jon admitted.
"Yes." Luke's eyes held no judgment. "The dark side of the Force responds to passion, to anger, fear, aggression. These emotions are natural, Jon. Denying them only gives them power."
Several sailors went about their work, casting curious glances at the strange training session. Jon spotted Jory Cassel leaning against the mainmast, arms crossed, his weathered face impassive.
"In the order," Luke continued, "there exists a fighting form called Vaapad. I know only portions of it, learned from ancient texts. It was considered dangerous by the Jedi."
"Dangerous how?"
"It channels aggressive feelings rather than suppressing them." Luke raised his practice sword. "It walks the edge of darkness without falling in."
Jon frowned. "You want me to use my anger?"
"I want you to acknowledge it. Control it. Direct it." Luke's voice grew quiet. "The fire you summoned came from the same place as your rage. Understand one, and you begin to master the other."
Jon raised his own practice sword, feeling the familiar weight. In his mind, he saw fire—beautiful and terrible—springing from his fingertips. The memory brought a surge of power that both thrilled and frightened him.
"Begin," Luke said.
Their wooden blades clashed, but unlike their previous training in Soresu, Luke's movements were aggressive, almost vicious. He pushed forward, striking in rapid succession, forcing Jon backward across the rolling deck.
"Feel your anger," Luke instructed as he landed a stinging blow to Jon's ribs. "Don't suppress it. Don't indulge it. Channel it."
Jon felt the familiar heat rising in his chest, the same rage that had exploded when Lord Stark revealed the truth. Instead of pushing it down, he let it flow into his arms, his blade.
He struck back, faster and harder than before. His practice sword became a blur as he drove Luke backward, each swing carrying the weight of fifteen years of lies.
"Good," Luke said, parrying Jon's strikes. "But control it. Vaapad isn't about losing yourself to rage. It's about riding its edge."
Jon forced himself to breathe, to feel the anger without surrendering to it. His attacks became more precise, calculated. The Force flowed through him differently now—not the serene river of Soresu, but a contained storm, directed and purposeful.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed the crew had stopped working. Jory and the other Winterfell guards watched with undisguised astonishment. Harwin whispered something to Alyn, whose hand drifted unconsciously toward his sword hilt.
"They fear what they don't understand," Jon said between strikes.
"Fear leads to anger," Luke replied, executing a sequence of cuts that forced Jon to backpedal. "Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. Remember that, Jon Snow."
The use of his chosen name, not Daemon—centered Jon. He blocked Luke's next strike and countered with a move that combined Vaapad's aggression with Soresu's defensive precision.
Luke nodded approval. "Better. You're finding balance."
They continued for what felt like hours, Luke introducing movements Jon had never imagined possible. The wooden practice swords cracked against each other, the sound echoing across the water. With each exchange, Jon felt something shifting inside him—not a rejection of his anger, but an understanding of it. A harnessing.
When they finally stopped, Jon's tunic clung to him with sweat despite the cool sea air. His arms trembled with exertion, but his mind felt clearer than it had since leaving Winterfell.
"You learn quickly," Luke said, returning his practice sword to the canvas bundle.
"It feels..." Jon searched for the right words. "It feels true. Like I'm not pretending the darkness isn't there."
Luke's eyes crinkled. "The greatest mistake the Jedi made was believing darkness could be eliminated rather than understood." He glanced over Jon's shoulder, his expression suddenly alert. "Something's wrong."
Jon turned to follow Luke's gaze. The horizon appeared empty, just endless gray waves meeting gray sky. "What is it?"
"Hostile intent." Luke closed his eyes briefly. "From behind us."
Luke strode across the deck, his movements suddenly taut with purpose. "Captain!" he called to the weathered man at the helm. "We may have trouble following us."
The captain squinted at the empty horizon. "I see nothing, m'lord."
"Trust me," Luke said. "Have your men keep watch on our stern. We're being pursued."
Jon felt it then—a distant ripple in the Force, like a cold current beneath warmer waters. Ghost's ears pricked forward, the direwolf's massive head turning toward the ship's wake.
"How can you be sure?" Jon asked quietly.
Luke's eyes remained fixed on the horizon. "The same way you knew that wildling would attack before he moved."
The captain hesitated only briefly before barking orders. "Tomard! To the crow's nest. Eyes sharp!" A thin sailor scrambled up the rigging with practiced ease.
Jory approached, hand resting on his sword hilt. "What manner of trouble?"
"I don't know yet," Luke replied. "But it means us harm."
Jon moved to the ship's stern, the wooden planks creaking beneath his boots. The sea stretched empty and gray behind them, waves cresting and falling in endless rhythm. Through the Force, he extended his awareness, feeling for the disturbance Luke had sensed.
There—at the edge of perception—a predatory intent that reminded Jon of Ghost stalking deer in the wolfswood. But this was no hunt for food. This was something crueler, hungrier.
"Sails!" came the cry from above. "Two ships, bearing down fast from the southwest!"
The crew burst into activity. The captain shouted commands while sailors rushed to their stations. Jon narrowed his eyes, focusing on the distant specks that had appeared on the horizon.
"Ironborn," Harwin spat, coming to stand beside Jon. "Those are longships. The cut of their sails is unmistakable."
"Raiders," Alyn added grimly. "Far from their usual hunting grounds."
Jory joined them, his weathered face grim. "They've been growing bolder in recent years. Taking ships farther north than before."
"How long?" Jon asked.
"An hour, maybe less," Jory replied. "They're built for speed, those ironborn ships. Lighter than our trading vessel."
Luke appeared beside them, his expression calm despite the growing tension. "Captain says we can't outrun them."
"Then we fight," Jon said, his hand moving to the sword at his hip.
The ship transformed as it prepared for battle. Sailors armed themselves with whatever weapons were available—belaying pins, boat hooks, a few actual swords. The Winterfell guards donned mail and checked their blades. Jon felt the familiar pre-battle tension spreading through his body, a tightness in his chest, a hollowness in his gut, the metallic taste of fear on his tongue.
"Remember your training," Luke said quietly. "Center yourself. The Force will guide your movements."
Jon nodded, drawing a deep breath. He reached for that cool current of calm Luke had taught him to find even in chaos. Ghost pressed against his leg, the direwolf's presence steady and reassuring.
"What do they want?" Jon asked.
"What reavers always want," Harwin answered. "Gold, goods, captives to sell as thralls."
The longships drew closer, their black sails now clearly visible. Jon could make out the golden kraken of House Greyjoy on one, a grinning skull on the other. They cut through the water with frightening speed, oars rising and falling in perfect unison.
"They'll come alongside," Jory explained, adjusting his sword belt. "Board us from both sides at once. That's their way."
Luke surveyed the deck. "We need to thin their numbers before they board. Captain, do you have archers?"
"Two men with hunting bows. Nothing more."
"It will have to do." Luke turned to Jon. "Stay close to me. Watch my movements. Learn."
Jon remembered the practice yard at Winterfell, how Luke had dispatched Jory and Alyn with moves that seemed to defy possibility. Whatever happened next, he suspected, would make that display seem like children's play.
The ironborn ships separated, one angling to approach their port side, the other to starboard. Jon could see men on their decks now, armored in salt-stained leather and dull mail, axes and swords glinting in the gray light.
"Steady!" the captain called. "Hold your positions!"
The first volley of arrows flew from the ironborn ships. Jon ducked instinctively, but Luke remained standing. His hand rose, and three arrows heading directly for them simply stopped in midair, hanging suspended before dropping harmlessly to the deck.
"Seven hells," Alyn whispered.
Before anyone could react further, the ironborn ships slammed against their hull. Grappling hooks flew over the railings, biting into wood. Rough voices shouted battle cries as the first wave of raiders scrambled up ropes and over the sides.
Jon drew his sword, falling into the opening stance of Soresu. Beside him, Ghost bared silent teeth, hackles raised along his spine.
"What is dead may never die!" An ironborn raider leapt over the railing, battle-axe raised high.
Jon felt the Force flow through him, his body responding with a speed and precision that would have been impossible months ago. He stepped sideways, letting the axe whistle past his shoulder, then swept his blade across the man's unprotected side. The raider fell with a gurgle, blood spreading across the deck.
The ship erupted into chaos. Raiders poured over both sides, met by the desperate defense of the crew and the more disciplined resistance of the Winterfell guards. Steel rang against steel. Men shouted in pain and fury. The deck grew slick with blood and seawater.
Jon fought with cold precision, letting the Force guide his movements. A second raider lunged at him with a spear. Jon parried the thrust, sliding inside the man's guard. His blade found the gap between the raider's helmet and mail shirt. The ironborn's eyes widened in surprise as his life fled.
Ghost became a white blur of fury, leaping at a raider who had cornered one of the younger sailors. The direwolf's jaws closed around the man's throat, and they fell together in a spray of crimson. Amidala moved with lethal grace beside Ghost, her massive form dwarfing even the largest raiders. An ironborn sailor, his beard matted with salt spray and blood, raised a boarding pike toward the direwolf pair.
The man never saw Amidala coming. Her jaws closed around his neck with a wet crunch that carried even over the clash of steel. She shook him once, violently, the way a terrier might shake a rat. Blood sprayed in an arc across the deck, spattering Ghost's white fur with crimson droplets. The raider's body went limp, his pike clattering uselessly against the rail as Amidala released him. He crumpled to the deck, eyes already glazing over.
Through the melee, Jon caught glimpses of Luke. His master wasn't using his hidden lightsaber but fought with what appeared to be an ordinary sword. Yet there was nothing ordinary about how he wielded it. Luke moved like water given form, his blade finding every opening, every weakness. More remarkably, he was using the Force openly now, gesturing with his free hand to send raiders flying backward, turning their own weapons against them, deflecting arrows with mere thought.
An ironborn with a face crisscrossed by ritual scars charged Jon, whirling a flail above his head. Jon caught the chain on his blade, but the weapon wrapped around his sword. The raider grinned, jerking hard to disarm him.
Jon released his sword and let the Force flow through him. As the raider lunged forward, Jon sidestepped, his hand shooting out to grasp the man's throat. With strength born of the Force, he lifted the struggling ironborn and slammed him against the mainmast. The crack of breaking bone cut through the battle noise, and the raider slumped lifeless to the deck.
Retrieving his sword, Jon turned to face new threats. Three raiders had cornered Jory, who fought with his back to the ship's rail. Jon waded toward them, dispatching one with a thrust through the back before the other two realized he was there. Jory nodded his thanks, his face streaked with blood from a cut above his eye.
"Behind you!" Jory shouted.
Jon whirled to find the largest ironborn he'd seen yet—a monster of a man with arms thick as small trees. The raider wielded a massive two-handed axe, already red with the blood of his victims. Jon raised his sword, knowing it would likely shatter against such a weapon.
The axe never fell. The raider's body suddenly contorted, his back arching unnaturally. He rose six feet into the air, limbs splayed wide, his face a mask of terror. Jon turned to see Luke standing with one hand extended, fingers curled as if grasping something invisible.
With a flick of Luke's wrist, the raider flew across the deck and over the opposite rail, disappearing into the churning sea with a distant splash.
The ironborn nearest to Luke backed away, terror plain on their faces. One dropped his weapon. "Sorcery," he hissed. "He's a godless sorcerer!"
Luke stepped forward, and the deck beneath the raiders' feet buckled upward, sending three of them sprawling. Before they could rise, invisible hands seemed to grasp them, dragging them across the planks and tossing them overboard like discarded toys.
"Demon!" An ironborn captain with a gold ring in his nose pointed at Luke. "Fall back! Back to the ships!"
The remaining raiders scrambled to retreat, several leaping over the rails in their haste to escape. Luke watched them go, his expression calm but resolute. When one turned to loose a final arrow at a sailor's unprotected back, Luke's hand shot out. The arrow reversed course in midair, burying itself in the archer's chest.
Jon stood amid the carnage, breathing hard. The battle had lasted perhaps ten minutes, but it felt like hours. The deck was littered with bodies. Most ironborn, but some of their own crew as well. Groans of the wounded mingled with the creak of timbers and the slap of waves against the hull.
The raiders' retreat was as swift as their attack. The grappling hooks were cut loose, and the longships began to pull away, oars churning the water in desperate haste.
Jon turned to Luke, who was helping a wounded sailor to his feet. The crew stood in a loose circle, staring at the Jedi with expressions ranging from awe to fear. Even Jory and the Winterfell guards, who had witnessed some of Luke's abilities before, seemed shaken by the full display of his power.
"What manner of man are you?" the captain asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Luke met his gaze steadily. "Someone who protects those under his care," he said. "Nothing more."
But Jon knew better. He'd seen what Luke could do now—not just in controlled training, but in the chaos of battle. The power to throw men about like straw dolls, to stop arrows in flight, to sense danger before it appeared.
"The ironborn will spread tales of this," Harwin said, wiping blood from a cut on his arm. "Tales of a sorcerer who defeated them with invisible hands."
"Let them," Luke replied. "Perhaps it will make them think twice before attacking innocent ships."
Jon cleaned his blade on a fallen raider's cloak, then sheathed it. Three men dead by his hand, their blood staining the deck at his feet. He felt no satisfaction, only a hollow certainty that he'd done what was necessary. The Force had guided his blade, made him faster, stronger, more precise than any normal swordsman could be.
He looked at his hands, remembering the heat of rage and fire at Winterfell. Today, he'd channeled that power differently—controlled, directed, purposeful.
Ghost padded to his side, muzzle dark with blood. The direwolf's red eyes met Jon's, and through their bond, Jon felt neither remorse nor pride—only the simple understanding that they had protected their pack.
"Help the wounded," Luke called, breaking the spell that had fallen over the crew. "We need to secure the ship and tend to our own."
As Jon moved to assist, he glanced back at the retreating ironborn ships. They were already distant shapes on the horizon, fleeing the power they'd encountered. Theirs was a culture that respected strength above all, that took what they wanted from those too weak to resist.
Today, they had learned there were forces in the world more powerful than their axes and their drowning god.
And so had Jon.
Comments
Hannan Potashman
That was a very entertaining chapter.
Full Horizon
Not really a force choke but it will be involved :)
Winter
Did i just witness force choke ? Or it was similar ? Either way force choke and force lightning should definitely be involved like old republic the third version where you can do force lightening at multiple enemies
Full Horizon
....That's a great question lol
IS6A6E
I just had this thought, could Jon and Dany be able to touch a Lightsaber without getting burned?
IS6A6E
Is there gonna be more Star Wars Characters like Mara Jade?
Full Horizon
He saw the tame version lol
Full Horizon
It's Vapaad here though a broken version. Luke doesn't know shatterpoint yet either.
IS6A6E
So Jon is learning Form VII. It will serve him well, if he can control himself. Also, did he use pyrokinesis? I might’ve missed that.
IS6A6E
Can’t wait for the moment when Luke stops holding back!
Mandragoran
Man, you gave us 5 chapters and I still want more. I loved Jon getting to see Luke in action
