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[Look To The Stars] Chapter 23: The Pull of Duty's Chain
🕑 Added 2025-07-25 03:06:19 +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 :)
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Winterfell, The North
The candle flame danced in the pre-dawn darkness, casting writhing shadows across Robb's chamber walls. He sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, back straight, hands resting on his knees as Master Luke had taught him. The weight of lordship pressed against his shoulders like a physical thing—heavier than any cloak, colder than winter steel.
Empty your mind, Luke's voice echoed in memory. Feel the connections between all things.
Easier said than done when every corner of Winterfell seemed to cry out for attention. The accounts that needed reviewing. The ravens from minor houses seeking guidance. The stores that needed counting before winter's grip tightened. Father had been gone only five days, riding south to Runestone with Waymar Royce's body, and already Robb felt like he was drowning.
He forced his breathing to slow, counting each inhale and exhale. The Force was there, just beyond reach, like trying to grasp smoke. Jon had taken to it naturally, of course. Even Arya could make stones dance now. But Robb, heir to Winterfell, future Lord of the North, struggled to feel more than whispers.
Stop trying so hard, he told himself, echoing another of Luke's lessons. Let it flow through you.
The sounds of the castle faded—the distant clatter of pots from the kitchens, guests waking up, the soft pad of guards on their rounds. His breathing deepened. The candlelight seemed to pulse with his heartbeat, and suddenly...
Connection.
It rushed through him like a winter storm, cold and overwhelming. He could feel Grey Wind prowling the godswood, hunting something small and quick. The rush soon turned raw and violent that set every nerve screaming unlike the usual gentle currents.
Grey Wind's hunt vanished. The godswood dissolved. In its place, a frozen wasteland. Wind that cut like flaying knives. The stench of rot and shadows moved across ice that had never known spring, and with each shambling step came the sound of joints cracking, tendons snapping back into place.
Blue void where eyes should be. Dozens of them. Hundreds.
And beneath it all, a presence that made Robb's teeth ache, made his blood sluggish in his veins—
The door burst open. Robb's eyes snapped wide, the connection shattering like thin ice. His heart hammered against his ribs as he blinked away the afterimages of that terrible cold.
"Robb!" Bran stood in the doorway, Summer at his heels. His little brother's face was pale as fresh milk, his eyes too wide. "I saw him. I saw Uncle Benjen."
"Bran?" Robb pushed himself to his feet, legs unsteady. The room spun slightly—too fast a return from wherever the Force had taken him. "What are you doing up? It's not even dawn."
"I had a dream. But it wasn't a dream." Bran's words tumbled over each other. "The three-eyed crow showed me. Uncle Benjen and his rangers, they're beyond the Wall. They're fighting, Robb. Fighting the dead."
The cold from Robb's meditation hadn't left him. If anything, it burrowed deeper, settling into his bones. "The dead?"
"Men who should be corpses. Walking. Their eyes..." Bran shuddered. "Blue as winter lakes. Uncle Benjen's sword passed right through them but they don't die. He's tried to get back to the Wall, but there were so many!"
Robb knelt before his brother, gripping his thin shoulders. Through the Force, he could feel the truth radiating from Bran like heat from a forge. This was no child's nightmare.
"How many men does he have with him?"
"Started with twelve. Only five left before I woke up." Bran's voice dropped to a whisper. "The crow says they won't reach the Wall."
Father's at Runestone. Jon's sailing to Oldtown. And I'm here, playing at lord while Uncle Benjen...
"Wait." Robb's voice came out sharper than he intended. "A crow? In your dream?"
"The three-eyed crow." Bran's tone held that matter-of-fact quality children used when explaining the obvious. "He shows me things. True things. He's been teaching me to see."
The words slithered down Robb's spine like ice water. "Teaching you?"
"To open my third eye. To fly." Bran's face brightened, as if discussing sword lessons rather than... whatever this was. "He says I'm special. That I have the greensight, like the children of the forest."
Robb's hands tightened on his brother's shoulders, "Bran, listen to me." He kept his voice steady despite the alarm bells clanging in his head. "This crow, this three-eyed thing—you need to stay away from it."
"But he helps me see!"
"No." The word cracked like breaking ice. "You know nothing about this three-eyed crow so promise me. Whatever it offers, whatever it shows you, you tell it no. You come to me instead."
Bran's face scrunched in confusion. "Why? He's seems old but not evil and he knows things—"
"That's exactly why." Robb pulled his brother into a fierce hug, feeling how small he still was, how fragile. "Old things that creep into children's dreams aren't teachers, Bran. They're predators."
Against his shoulder, Bran's voice came muffled. "You're scaring me."
"Good. Be scared." Robb pulled back, meeting those wide grey eyes. "Promise me. On the old gods and the new. You'll stay away from the three-eyed crow."
"I… promise Robb" Bran said meekly.
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The Great Hall's trestle tables groaned beneath platters of roasted capon and fresh bread, steam curling up toward the smoke-darkened rafters. Robb carved into his meat with more force than necessary, the knife scraping against pewter as he watched Wendel Manderly lower himself onto the bench across from him. The man's bulk made the wood creak in protest, his sea-green doublet straining at the seams.
"My lord," Wendel wheezed, dabbing sweat from his forehead despite the hall's chill. "House Manderly stands ready to confirm these... disturbing reports from the Wall."
"As does House Tallhart," Leobald added from his place beside Robett Glover. The man's grey beard couldn't hide the skepticism etched into his weathered face. "Though I pray to the old gods we find nothing but wildling tales."
Robb set down his knife, feeling the weight of their expectations. Grey Wind dozed by the hearth, but through their bond, Robb sensed the direwolf's alertness, ready to spring at the slightest provocation.
"I'm grateful you're all willing to see for yourselves." His voice carried across the hall with more authority than he felt. "Would that I could ride with you, but..." He gestured vaguely at the castle around them. "Winterfell needs its lord."
Rickard Ryswell leaned forward, his scarred hands wrapped around a horn of ale. "No shame in holding the castle, boy. Your father trained you well." The grizzled lord's eyes narrowed. "Though I wonder if all his training included... what we witnessed at the council."
The hall fell silent save for the crackling hearth. Robb felt their stares—curious, wary, hungry for answers. Artos Flint shifted on his bench, the movement making his mail coat clink softly.
"You want to ask about the mug." Robb kept his tone even, though his pulse quickened.
"Sorcery," Cley Cerwyn said quietly. At nineteen, he was closest to Robb's age, and they'd trained together often enough for Robb to recognize the uncertainty in his voice. "That's what some are calling it."
"Then why do you hesitate to speak of it?" Robb pushed his plate aside, meeting each man's gaze in turn. "You've all sworn oaths before heart trees. You keep the old gods. Yet you flinch from their gifts?"
"Magic hasn't been seen for centuries," Robett Glover protested, though his voice lacked conviction. "The maesters say—"
"The maesters say many things." Robb stood, feeling the Force pulse through him like a second heartbeat. "They also claim the children of the forest are myths. That giants are stories to frighten babes. Yet here we sit, while the walking dead lurk beyond the Wall."
His mother's fingers tightened on her cup. "Robb..."
"We are men of the North." He ignored her warning, letting his voice ring out. "Our faith runs deeper than any sept or septon's prayers. The weirwoods remember what the Faith of the Seven would have us forget."
Wendel Manderly grunted, his chins wobbling. "Well said, my lord. My grandfather spoke of such things—hedge witches who could heal with a touch, woods witches who could speak to beasts."
"Aye," Leobald agreed slowly. "My old nan used to say the Stark blood ran thick with the old magic. Said it's why the wolves come to you."
Grey Wind chose that moment to yawn, displaying impressive fangs. Several men shifted uneasily.
The door to the Great Hall opened with a bang. Maester Luwin hurried in, his chain clinking with each step, a sealed parchment clutched in his thin fingers. Snow dusted his grey robes.
"My lord," he said breathlessly. "From Castle Black. Most urgent."
Robb's stomach clenched as he took the message. The black wax seal bore the imprint of the Night's Watch. He broke it open, aware of every eye upon him as he read. The words seemed to blur, then sharpen with terrible clarity.
No. Not Uncle Benjen.
He forced his voice to remain steady. "Lord Commander Mormont writes that Mance Rayder has begun moving his host south. Thousands of wildlings, perhaps tens of thousands, marching on the Wall."
Outrage erupted. Rickard Ryswell slammed his fist on the table. "The savage who calls himself King dares to threaten the North!"
"There's more." Robb's gaze found Bran, who sat beside their mother. His little brother's face had gone pale as milk. "My uncle... Benjen Stark has gone missing beyond the Wall. Twelve rangers rode out. None have returned."
The hall exploded. Lords shouted over each other, calling for blood, for war, for immediate action. Robett Glover demanded they ride north at once. Wendel Manderly wheezed about summoning the banners. Through it all, Robb kept his eyes on Bran, remembering his brother's terrified words from before dawn.
Five left. If they don't reach the Wall by sunset...
Grey Wind rose from the hearth, hackles raised. The direwolf's growl cut through the chaos like a blade through silk. The lords fell silent, remembering whose hall they sat in.
"Enough." Robb didn't shout, but the Force carried his words to every corner. "You ride for the Wall as planned. You'll see the truth of what we face soon enough."
He turned to his mother, whose face had gone rigid with understanding. "Lady Stark, you will hold Winterfell. Bran will serve as acting lord in my absence."
"Robb, no—"
"I ride for Castle Black with you lot." He rolled up the parchment, his hands steady despite the storm in his chest. "If my uncle lives, I'll find him. If Mance Rayder wants war, he'll have it."
"You're needed here," his mother said, desperation creeping into her voice. "Your father left you in command!"
"My father would ride to face a wildling threat." The words came out harder than he intended. "He would ride for his brother."
Bran's small voice cut through the tension. "Robb, you can't. The things I saw—"
"Are exactly why I must go." He crossed to his brother, kneeling beside him. Through the Force, he felt Bran's terror, raw and real. "Uncle Benjen is out there. I won't abandon him to... whatever waits in the snow."
"My lord," Maester Luwin interjected carefully, "perhaps we should wait for your lord father's return. Runestone is only a few weeks travel."
"Too far." Robb stood, decision crystallizing. "Send ravens to every house in the North." Robb's voice cut through the lingering tension, steady as northern steel. "They're to marshal their men and hold them ready, but they wait for my word before marching."
Maester Luwin's chains clinked softly as he shifted. "All of them, my lord?"
"Every last one." Robb met the old man's worried gaze. "From the Umbers at Last Hearth to the Reeds in their swamps. Tell them..." He paused, weighing each word. "Tell them winter's teeth are bared, and House Stark calls them to stand ready. But make it clear: they hold position until I send word. No lord rides until I command it."
Luwin bowed, understanding the weight of what wasn't being said. The North hadn't been called to unified readiness since the last Greyjoy rebellion. "It will be done."
His mother grabbed his arm as the lords dispersed to make preparations. "This is folly. You're barely more than a boy Robb!"
"I'm the Stark in Winterfell." He gently removed her hand. "And boys don't lead men to war."
"Is that what this is? War?"
Robb thought of the blue eyes in his vision, the shambling corpses, the cold that went deeper than winter. "I pray not. But if it is, better we meet it beyond the Wall than in our beds."
He strode from the hall, Grey Wind padding beside him. Behind, he heard his mother calling for Bran, her voice tight with fear. But Robb didn't look back. Couldn't.
Somewhere beyond the Wall, in the gathering dark, his uncle fought for survival against an enemy that shouldn't exist. And deeper still, something vast and terrible stirred, its attention turning south like a wolf scenting prey.
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Oakenshield, Shield Islands
Jon Snow stepped into the inn's common room, grateful to feel solid floorboards beneath his boots after weeks of the ship's endless rolling. Jon remembered Lord Stark' warning, delivered in that grave tone that brooked no argument. "Whatever you do, avoid the Westerlands ports. Tywin Lannister has eyes everywhere, and I'll not have you falling into his hands." The Iron Islands had gone without saying—no sane Northerner would willingly sail into those reaver-infested waters.
The detour had added a full week to their journey, forcing them to go all the way around the Iron Islands instead. More time trapped in that wooden coffin of a cabin, listening to sailors' crude jokes and breathing air that tasted of salt and tar.
Worth it, though. The last thing they needed was some Lannister spy noting a Stark bastard traveling south with a mysterious companion. Lord Stark had been right about that, as he usually was about matters of caution.
Ghost's tail thumped once against his boot, the direwolf sensing his unease, making Jon reached down to scratch behind those white ears.
"Seven hells," he muttered, catching himself on a chair back. The rough wood bit into his palm.
Jory chuckled behind him. "Takes a few hours to remember how land works, lad. Find us a table while I arrange rooms with the innkeep."
Jon nodded, scanning the dim interior. Tallow candles guttered in iron sconces, casting more shadow than light. In the corner, he spotted an empty table near enough to the hearth for warmth but far enough from the door to avoid the constant draft. He claimed it, sinking onto the bench with a groan of relief.
Ghost padded after him with Amidala following closely behind, drawing nervous glances from the other patrons. The direwolves settled beneath the table, Ghost's bulk pressing against Jon's legs—a familiar comfort after the strangeness of the voyage.
"Five ales," Jon told the serving girl when she approached, eyeing Ghost warily. "And whatever hot food you have."
Luke joined him moments later, moving with that fluid grace that never seemed affected by ship or saddle. The older man's eyes swept the room in a practiced assessment before he sat.
"The captain says we'll need a full day to resupply," Luke said, keeping his voice low. "Oakenshield's a decent port, but finding quality provisions takes time."
Jon leaned forward, elbows on the scarred table. "Master, on the ship you mentioned something called R2-D2. What is that exactly?"
Luke's weathered face softened with what Jon had come to recognize as nostalgia. "Not what—well not exactly. R2 is my companion. A... mechanical being, you might say. A being that's not alive the way you and I are but who can still think and feel."
"It's not alive… but is alive?" Jon kept his voice hushed, though the inn's noise provided cover. "How is that possible?"
"The same way a man from beyond the stars teaches swordsmanship in Winterfell." Luke's eyes crinkled. "My world has different rules, Jon. R2 helped me through more adventures than I can count. Saved my life more times than that."
The serving girl returned with their ales and bowls of fish stew. Jon took a grateful sip, the bitter taste washing away the lingering salt from the voyage.
"Where is this R2 now?"
"Safe. Hidden with my ship." Luke stirred his stew absently. "When we return north, I'll introduce you. He'll like you, I think. He has a weakness for brave young heroes with more courage than sense."
Jon snorted. "Not much of a hero."
"If you say so." Luke's half grinned as his fingers traced patterns on the scarred wood, a habit Jon had noticed when his master sorted through memories. "There was this cantina on Tatooine—a wretched place, really. Sand in everything, smugglers at every table, and crime as common as snowflakes in the North."
"Sounds like the Iron Islands to me." Jon's nose wrinkled.
"Hmm... an apt description I suppose," Luke took a long pull of ale. "I was young, a farm boy who'd never been further than Anchorhead. Then Ben—my first teacher—took me there to find passage off-world."
The firelight caught the scars on Luke's hands as he gestured. "The moment we walked in, this... creature, seven feet tall with tusks like boar's teeth, decided he didn't like my face. Started shoving me around, speaking in a language that sounded like gargling rocks."
Jon leaned forward despite himself. The stew cooled forgotten between them.
"Ben tried to defuse it by buying the creature a drink, suggested we move along. But his friend, this scarred human with breath that could've stripped paint, pulled a blaster on us."
"A blaster?"
"Think of a crossbow that shoots light instead of bolts. Deadly at any range." Luke's voice dropped, taking on an edge Jon rarely heard. "The human was about to fire when Ben... moved. I'd never seen anything like it. One moment he was this kindly old hermit, the next—"
Luke's hand swept across the table in a precise arc. "His lightsaber ignited, and the man's arm hit the floor before anyone could blink. The whole cantina went dead silent. Even the band stopped playing."
"Gods." Jon's own hand twitched toward his sword. "What happened then?"
"We sat down and finished our drinks." Luke's weathered face cracked into a grin. "Found our pilot ten minutes later. Turned out nobody wanted to test if the old man could cut their hands off too."
Jon shook his head, trying to picture this world of crime and boar-faced men. "Your teacher sounds like he was quite the warrior."
"He was more than that." Luke's voice softened. "He taught me that sometimes the greatest strength is knowing when not to fight. That mercy and wisdom matter more than any weapon." His eyes found Jon's. "Lessons I'm trying to pass on to another young man who thinks with his sword hand first."
Heat crept up Jon's neck. "I don't always—"
Luke's smile faded as movement near the door caught his attention. His shoulders tensed, subtle, but Jon had learned to read his master's moods.
A knight entered the inn, his polished mail catching the firelight. The man wore sea-green and silver, with a mailed glove sigil on his surcoat. House Hewett of Oakenshield. He surveyed the common room with the casual arrogance of someone used to deference.
"Trouble?" Jon murmured.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Luke's expression had gone carefully neutral—the face he wore when sensing currents in the Force that Jon couldn't yet perceive.
The knight's gaze swept past them, then snapped back. His eyes narrowed, focusing on Jon with an intensity that made the hair on his neck prickle. The man strode forward, weaving between tables with purpose.
"Jon Snow," the knight said, stopping before their table. Up close, Jon could see the gray threading his brown beard, the weather lines around his eyes. "Son of Lord Eddard Stark."
It wasn't a question. Jon's hand instinctively moved toward his sword hilt before he caught himself. "Ser...?"
"Ser Garse, sworn sword to Lord Hewett." The knight's tone was cordial enough, but something in his stance suggested wariness. "My lord heard tell of your arrival. The Northern Maid's captain speaks highly of your... martial prowess against the ironborn."
Jon's jaw tightened. Of course word had spread. Sailors gossiped worse than fishwives.
"My lord extends an invitation," Ser Garse continued. "He would be honored to host you and your companions at the castle tonight. A feast in honor of such distinguished guests."
Jon glanced at Luke, whose face remained impassive. Through the Force, Jon sensed his master's caution—not alarm exactly, but a sharpened awareness.
"That's very generous," Jon said carefully. "But we're simple travelers. Surely Lord Hewett has more important—"
"My lord insists." Ser Garse's smile didn't reach his eyes. "It would be... unfortunate if House Stark's hospitality wasn't properly reciprocated when its sons venture south. Lord Hewett takes such matters seriously."
The threat was silk-wrapped but unmistakable. Jon felt his temper flare—that old familiar heat that Luke had been teaching him to channel rather than suppress. Ghost stirred beneath the table, sensing his agitation.
"We wouldn't want to cause offense," Luke said mildly. "Would we, Jon?"
Jon met his master's gaze. Luke's expression gave nothing away, but the force told him otherwise and Jon had learned to trust his judgment in these matters. If Luke sensed immediate danger, he would have already acted.
"No," Jon said finally. "We wouldn't."
"Excellent." Ser Garse's smile widened fractionally. "I'll send men to collect you at sunset. The castle isn't far. Perhaps an hour's ride."
He gave a perfunctory bow and departed, mail clinking with each step. Jon waited until the knight had left before turning back to Luke.
"We could leave. Take ship tonight."
"Could we?" Luke took a thoughtful sip of ale. "The captain needs his supplies. And Lord Hewett would certainly hear of our departure. How would that reflect on your father?"
Jon grimaced. Politics. Even here, hundreds of miles from Winterfell, he couldn't escape the games lords played. "So we go."
"We go." Luke's eyes held that distant look that meant he was touching the Force, reading currents Jon couldn't yet sense. "But carefully."
Comments
Full Horizon
Luke’s just there for the ride 😂
Full Horizon
Jon alone attracts random trouble, but Jon and Luke together? Yikes lol
Mandragoran
Ha! Haven’t even made it to oldtown and already getting into trouble
IS6A6E
Oh boy. Wonder how Luke and Jon are gonna handle this. Can't wait to find out more.
