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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Oldtown, The Reach
Jon stood frozen, the word "Prince" echoing through the chamber like a bell struck in darkness. His stomach twisted into a cold knot. The heavy scent of old parchment and candle wax suddenly felt suffocating, and he could taste his own fear.
"My lady," Jon stammered, forcing his voice through a throat gone dry as sand. "You must be mistaken. I'm Jon Snow, a bastard of Winterfell, not a prince!"
"Lord Hightower, perhaps we could discuss why you requested this meeting?" Luke's voice cut through Jon's fumbling denial, smooth and controlled. "The archives is the reason we have come."
Lord Leyton's head snapped toward Luke as if awakening from a trance. The old lord's green eyes narrowed, studying Jon with an intensity that made his skin prickle. Jon felt like a butterfly pinned to a table, every detail of his face being catalogued and measured against some invisible standard.
The silence stretched taut. Jon could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, could feel sweat gathering at the base of his spine despite the chamber's coolness. Marwyn shifted his considerable weight, making the floorboards creak. Alleras hadn't moved since the woman's declaration, dark eyes darting between Jon and the silver-haired woman as if watching a mummer's play unfold.
Lord Leyton's voice, when it finally came, carried the crisp efficiency of a merchant tallying accounts. "You'll need to travel to Highgarden, Snow. Lord Renly Baratheon and Lady Olenna Tyrell have... requested your presence."
Jon's confusion deepened, his thoughts scattering like leaves in a windstorm. "Highgarden? But we've only just arrived—"
"The Oakenshield incident." Lord Leyton's words fell flat and heavy as stones dropped into still water. "Word travels faster than ships, it seems."
The put in Jon's stomach kept growing. He caught Luke's eye, seeing his own worry reflected there. They'd known word would spread, but not this quickly.
"Lady Olenna is particularly interested." Lord Leyton continued, his gaze never leaving Jon's face. "You're fortunate to be Eddard Stark's son—bastard or not. It affords you certain... protections."
The way he said it, the weight he placed on each word, made Jon's force sense pick up there was something more to this. Lord Leyton stared at him as if he were a particularly complex puzzle that needed solving, or perhaps a locked chest whose contents might prove either treasure or poison.
Throughout this exchange, the silver-haired woman, Malora as Lord Leyton had called her—swayed gently where she stood, humming something tuneless under her breath. Her star-filled eyes remained fixed on Jon with an expression of delighted fascination that made him want to step backward.
"I called you here," Lord Leyton admitted, his fingers drumming against his desk, "hoping to understand the... unusual events at Oakenshield's harbor."
He gestured toward Luke with one liver-spotted hand. "Witnesses speak of impossible things. Docks crumbling without touch, men thrown without contact."
Jon's mind raced for excuses, any excuse at this point. Pirates, structural damage, anything to explain away what Lord Leyton clearly already knew. The words formed on his tongue: We were defending ourselves, the docks were already weak, it was dark and confusing—
A wave of warmth washed through him, gentle as summer rain. Luke's presence in the Force wrapped around his churning thoughts like a steady hand on a spooked horse. The panic ebbed, his breathing steadied, and the half-formed lies dissolved before they could shame him further.
Don't compound one mistake with another, Jon thought, feeling the truth of it settle in his bones. His wasn't raised a liar. The Force pulsed gently through him, Luke's calm mixing with his own resolve.
He straightened his shoulders, meeting Lord Leyton's calculating gaze directly. Whatever game the old lord played, whatever leverage he sought to gain, Jon would face it with the honor Ned Stark had raised him with.
"I hoped to offer clemency with Lady Olenna in exchange for... enlightenment."
Enlightenment? Oh. Jon could feel the trap closing, could sense the careful calculation behind Lord Leyton's words. The old lord wanted something, knowledge, proof, understanding of what they could do. And he was using Lady Olenna's summons as leverage.
Master Luke sent another wave of calm through the Force, and Jon drew strength from it, though anxiety still coiled in his belly like a serpent. He opened his mouth to respond, but Malora's voice cut through the tension.
"The prince of ice and fire stands before us, father."
Her voice had changed, becoming distant and sing-song, as if she spoke from the bottom of a well. Jon turned to stare at her, bewilderment replacing fear.
"Born of a winter's rose and dragon's flame."
The words sent ice down Jon's spine but she continued.
"Descended from the star-walker who built with frozen light."
Jon's gaze snapped to Master Luke, whose eyes had widened almost imperceptibly. The Jedi's controlled expression cracked just enough for Jon to see recognition there that Jon couldn't understand, Master Luke understood something in those cryptic words.
"Two heritages war within—the builder's ice, the dragon's pyre."
No. No, no, no. Jon's thoughts raced. She couldn't know. It was impossible. Father had kept the secret for fifteen years, had let his honor be stained rather than reveal the truth!
"The promised prince who must either accept his heritage or be drowned in the dark."
"I don't understand… I don't understand any of this." Jon's voice came out strangled, desperate.
But he could see it in Lord Leyton's face, the slow dawning of comprehension. Those sharp green eyes moved from his daughter to Jon, cataloguing features with new understanding. The shape of Jon's face, the set of his eyes, details that meant nothing alone but together painted a picture Lord Leyton was only now beginning to see.
Master Luke's hand brushed Jon's elbow, a subtle gesture of support that helped ground him. Through their connection in the Force, Jon felt Master Luke's mind working rapidly, parsing Malora's words with the wisdom of his strange training.
The chamber felt smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in. Jon could smell his own sweat mixing with the musty air, could hear Marwyn's excited breathing quickening. Even Alleras had stepped forward, dark eyes bright with curiosity.
Jon needed to change the subject, needed to pull attention away from Malora's prophecy before Lord Leyton's clever mind assembled all the pieces. "Lord Hightower," he said, forcing his voice steady, "If we grant your request, will you help with Lady Olenna?"
Lord Leyton blinked, still processing his revelation. "Yes, yes of course..." His voice carried a distracted quality, as if his mind worked on multiple levels simultaneously.
Jon looked to Master Luke, expecting his teacher to step forward, to demonstrate the Force and satisfy Lord Leyton's curiosity. It would be safer that way as Master Luke was already known as someone strange and foreign. One more impossibility wouldn't damage his reputation.
But Master Luke smiled, that particular smile that meant Jon was about to be pushed beyond his comfort. The Jedi nodded toward the heavy tome on Lord Leyton's desk, then gestured for Jon to proceed.
"Me?" Jon's voice cracked slightly. "But—"
Master Luke's encouraging nod left no room for argument. The message was clear: You can do this. Trust yourself.
Jon swallowed hard, tasting that copper fear again. But beneath it, something else stirred. Pride, perhaps. Or defiance. He was tired of hiding, tired of pretending to be less than he was. If Lord Leyton wanted enlightenment, Jon would give it to him.
He extended his hand toward the massive book, feeling the Force flow through him like a river finding its course. The sensation had become familiar over many months of training, but using it so openly, so deliberately in front of strangers, sent a thrill of danger through his veins.
The tome lifted smoothly from the desk, its leather binding creaking as it rose. Jon guided it through the air with careful precision, aware of every eye in the room tracking its movement. The book floated across the chamber, rotating slowly as if displaying itself for inspection, before settling gently into Jon's waiting hands.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then Lord Leyton jumped from his chair with more vigor than a man his age should possess. "Magnificent! The stories are true!"
Malora clapped her hands together, laughing with the pure delight of a child seeing snow for the first time. The sound tinkled through the chamber like silver bells.
"Seven hells!" Marwyn shouted, his careful composure shattering completely. "It's real! The higher mysteries!"
Alleras had stumbled backward, one slender hand pressed to her mouth in shock. Through the Force, Jon could feel her mind reeling, trying to reconcile what she'd seen with everything she thought she knew about the world.
"I expected Skywalker to demonstrate, not you, Snow." Lord Leyton's voice had sharpened, his calculating gaze intensifying. Jon shifted under that scrutiny, acutely aware of how much he'd just revealed.
Marwyn turned to Master Luke with the eagerness of a dog spotting a bone. "Can this be taught? Could I learn?"
Master Luke's expression remained diplomatically neutral. "Only those with the right... sensitivity can access this power. It's quite rare."
"A pity," Alleras said, her voice carrying a wistful note that almost made Jon smile despite his anxiety. "I could finally reach the books on the highest shelves without a ladder."
Jon couldn't help it as a laugh bubbled up in his throat. He managed to turn it into a cough at the last second. The idea of Alleras, secretly a woman masquerading as a man, lamenting her inability to reach high shelves struck Jon as absurdly mundane after everything else.
"So, Lord Hightower," Jon said, desperate to refocus the conversation before more questions arose, "you'll send word to Lady Olenna?"
Lord Leyton's grin stretched wide, making him look decades younger. "I'll send a raven immediately. Return in a week for my letter of introduction."
He paused, and Jon felt the weight of unspoken conditions settling over them like a shroud.
"But understand, Lady Olenna expects you soon after. You'll have exactly seven days in the citadel archives."
Seven days to find what they needed about the Others, about the Long Night, about whatever darkness threatened the realm. It wasn't enough, but it would have to be.
Jon bowed, the gesture feeling stiff and formal. "Thank you, my lord. We're grateful for your assistance."
They turned to leave, Jon's legs feeling unsteady as water. He'd made it three steps toward the door when Malora's voice rang out again, cheerful as birdsong.
"See you soon, child of stars!"
Jon's step faltered. Child of stars? What did she mean by—
"Until next week then... Snow." Lord Leyton's voice carried weight that made Jon's shoulders tense. "The bastard who is not quite what he seems."
Every muscle in Jon's body screamed at him to turn around, to demand explanation, to deny whatever Lord Leyton thought he knew. But Master Luke's hand found his elbow again, firm and guiding, steering him toward the door.
They descended the tower stairs in silence, Jon's mind churning like a storm-tossed sea. The sound of their footsteps echoed in the narrow stairwell, mixing with Alleras's lighter tread behind them and Marwyn's heavier breathing.
Only when they emerged into the afternoon sunlight, the salt-sweet air of Oldtown filling their lungs, did Jon dare to speak.
"He knows," Jon whispered to Master Luke, the words barely audible. "Lord Leyton knows who I am."
Master Luke's expression remained calm, but Jon could feel his teacher's mind working through the Force, calculating odds and possibilities.
"He suspects," Master Luke corrected quietly. "But suspicion isn't knowledge. And even if he knows, exposing you to King Baratheon might not be at his best interest."
"And Malora?" Jon couldn't keep the edge of panic from his voice. "Those things she said—"
"Were true, from a certain point of view." Master Luke's voice carried that mysterious quality it got when he spoke of things from his distant past. "The Force speaks through her, but prophecy is a dangerous guide. It shows what might be, not what must be."
They walked in silence for a moment, navigating Oldtown's crowded streets. Merchants hawked their wares, sailors cursed in a dozen languages, and somewhere a septon preached about the Seven's mercy. Normal life continuing, oblivious to the supernatural demonstration that had just occurred in the tower above.
"Child of stars," Jon muttered, tasting the words. "What does that even mean?"
Master Luke's expression shifted, becoming thoughtful. "Your ancestor, Brandon the Builder. Some of the texts in Winterfell's library hint at things, impossible things for your… culture. And Malora called him the star-walker who built with frozen light."
"You think Brandon the Builder was like you?" Jon couldn't hide his skepticism. "From... elsewhere?"
"I think," Master Luke said carefully, "that this world has seen visitors before. And perhaps some of them left more than just stories behind."
The implications made Jon's head spin. If Brandon the Builder had been... whatever Master Luke was... and if the Stark bloodline carried that heritage... combined with his Targaryen blood...
"Ice and fire," Jon whispered, understanding dawning.
"The prince that was promised," Master Luke agreed quietly. "Though I'd caution against putting too much stock in prophecies. In my experience, they tend to fulfill themselves in ways you never expect."
They reached the Quill and Tankard as the sun began its descent toward the horizon, painting Oldtown's white stone buildings in shades of gold and amber. Falia waited in the common room, relief flooding her face when he saw them.
"How did it go?" she asked, though her expression suggested he could already tell it had been eventful.
"We have seven days," Master Luke said simply. "Best we make them count."
Jon nodded, but his mind remained fixed on Malora's words, on Lord Leyton's knowing look, on the choice between frost and flame that apparently awaited him. He thought of the fire he'd summoned in anger at Winterfell, of the ice in his veins when he fought with perfect control.
Two heritages warring within.
He pushed the thought aside. They had seven days to find answers about the Others, about the darkness creeping south. His identity crisis would have to wait.
But as he climbed the stairs to his room, Jon couldn't shake the feeling that Lord Leyton's parting words would prove prophetic. He was a bastard who was not quite what he seemed.
And soon, the world would know it.
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Kingslanding, The Crownlands
The wine tasted of summer peaches and deception, sweet enough to mask whatever poison his dear sister might have slipped into it. Tyrion swirled the Arbor gold in his cup, watching the candlelight dance through the amber liquid while Cersei poured herself a third generous measure.
"You're unusually quiet tonight, brother." Cersei's voice carried that particular edge that meant she was already well into her cups. "No clever quips about Father's new position? No jokes about the crown's dignity?"
"I find myself contemplating the virtues of silence." Tyrion took a careful sip. "It seems safer than words these days."
Cersei laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Since when has the Imp ever chosen safety over wit?"
Her chambers smelled of lavender oil and with something sharper mixed in—anxiety, perhaps, or the particular scent of schemes coming to fruition. The Queen had dismissed her servants early, always a sign that she intended to speak freely. Or as freely as Cersei ever spoke, which was to say in riddles wrapped in threats dressed as sisterly concern.
"Tell me," Tyrion ventured, settling deeper into the cushioned chair that made him appear even smaller, "what do you make of Father's new tax policies? The North can hardly afford such rates."
"Finally." Cersei's eyes glittered with satisfaction. "Finally, they'll pay their fair share. For too long, the North has hoarded its wealth while crying poverty. Did you know they've been hiding their true resources for years?"
"Have they now?" Tyrion kept his tone neutral, though his mind sharpened. "And how did we discover this deception?"
"Lord Baelish brought proof to Father." She took another drink, the wine staining her lips darker. "Documents Jon Arryn had hidden away. Records of ironwood sales, fur trades, even silver mines the crown never knew existed."
Tyrion noticed the slight hesitation, the way her fingers tightened on the stem of her goblet. "Lord Baelish showed Father these documents?"
"Well, I saw them first, naturally." The correction came too quickly, accompanied by a defensive lift of her chin. "As Queen, I review all matters of importance before they reach the Hand."
Ah, Tyrion thought, there it is. The slip that revealed more than a dozen confessions. Cersei had seen these documents before Father arrived in King's Landing, which meant she'd been working with Littlefinger long before the appointment.
"How fortunate that Lord Baelish is so dedicated to the crown's interests," Tyrion murmured.
"Lord Stark." Cersei's voice dropped to a hiss, the wine loosening her tongue and her restraint. "So honorable, so pure, so very righteous. The hypocrite parades his bastard for all to see while judging others for their supposed sins."
The venom in her voice could have curdled milk. Tyrion watched his sister's face transform, beauty twisting into something uglier.
"He was watching Joffrey at Winterfell." Her voice dropped dangerously low, each word precise despite the wine. "Counting, measuring, comparing. Those grey eyes of his, always watching, always judging."
"Comparing?" Tyrion prompted gently, though his pulse quickened.
"Hair color, height, the shape of a jaw." Cersei's knuckles whitened around her cup. "Littlefinger's little whores heard him asking about hair color in the Wintertown brothels. Can you imagine? The honorable Lord Stark, frequenting whorehouses to ask about whether black hair breeds true."
The implications crashed over Tyrion like cold water, Ned Stark suspects Cersie's children are… bastards? Even a false accusation from the King's best friend and the most honorable man in Westeros could destroy House Lannister.
"Surely you're reading too much into innocent curiosity," Tyrion suggested, though his mouth had gone dry.
"Innocent?" Cersei's laugh was bitter as wormwood. "Nothing about that man is innocent. But it doesn't matter now." She raised her cup in a mock toast. "Let him refuse to be Hand. When he rebels against this tax, Father will crush him."
She took another long drink, and Tyrion saw it all—the beautiful, terrible simplicity of it. Financial pressure to force rebellion, rebellion to justify destruction, destruction to silence questions forever.
"And all his suspicious questions die with him," Cersei finished, her smile sharp as a blade.
Tyrion forced himself to appear thoughtful rather than alarmed. "What makes you think he'll rebel? The Starks have bent the knee for three hundred years."
"Because his honor won't let him watch his people starve." Cersei's smile turned cold as a winter morning. "He'll plead, he'll negotiate, he'll appeal to Robert's friendship. And when all that fails, when his precious smallfolk begin dying for lack of grain they cannot afford, his noble heart will force his hand. And when he raises his banners against the crown..."
She didn't need to finish. Treason meant death. Not just for Ned Stark, but for anyone who might carry his suspicions forward. A neat solution to a dangerous problem, wrapped in the legitimate response to rebellion.
"And Robert?" Tyrion swirled the wine in his cup, watching the candlelight fracture through the burgundy liquid. "You truly believe he'll stand idle while you destroy his dearest friend?"
Cersei's laugh was brittle as old parchment. "Robert?" She reached for the wine pitcher, her movements languid with drink and certainty. "Robert's too deep in his cups to notice if the sun failed to rise. By the time he surfaces from whatever whore's bed he's fouled, it will be done."
"He sobered quickly enough when the Greyjoys rebelled."
"That was different." Cersei's voice carried the dismissive tone she reserved for discussing her husband. "That was war. Glory. Something to make his fat heart remember when he was young and stupid. This?" She gestured vaguely at the air between them. "This is numbers on ledgers, grain counts, tax rates. Robert would rather drink himself blind than parse through financial records."
The wine tasted sour on Tyrion's tongue. "And if someone tells him plainly what's happening? If Lord Stark writes directly—"
"Every raven from the North passes through Pycelle's rookery first." Cersei's smile could have curdled milk. "And our dear Grand Maester knows where his interests lie. Robert will hear what we wish him to hear. Northern complaints about taxation. Stark arrogance. Perhaps hints of hoarded wealth while southern lords struggle." She lifted her cup again, studying the wine's dark surface. "By the time anyone might speak plainly to Robert's face, Stark will already be in open rebellion. And then, well... even Robert won't defend a traitor."
"Father agreed to this?" Tyrion asked, though he suspected the answer.
"Father sees the wisdom in the crown getting it's just due from perpetrators hoarding wealth." Cersei set down her empty cup with exaggerated care. "Unlike Robert, he understands that sometimes honor is just another word for stupidity."
The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows across his sister's face. In that light, she looked like their father, too much like their father, calculating, ruthless, willing to burn kingdoms to protect what was theirs.
"And if Lord Stark doesn't rebel?" Tyrion posed the question carefully. "If he finds another way?"
"There is no other way." Cersei's certainty was absolute. "We've made sure of that. Every route is blocked, every appeal will be denied. He can submit and watch his people suffer, or he can fight and die a traitor. Either way, his questions end."
Tyrion took another sip of wine, his mind racing through possibilities and consequences. Somewhere in the North, Ned Stark was walking into a trap so carefully constructed that even knowing it existed might not save him. And somewhere else, Tyrion suspected, Littlefinger was playing an even deeper game, one that used Cersei's fears and Father's ambition as mere pieces on a larger board.
"You seem troubled, brother." Cersei's voice held mock concern. "Don't tell me you've developed affection for the Starks."
"Merely contemplating the complexities of taxation policy," Tyrion replied, setting down his cup. "It's fascinating how numbers on parchment can reshape kingdoms."
"Numbers and necessity," Cersei corrected. "The North has lived too long in its romantic notions of honor and duty. It's time they learned how the world truly works."
As Tyrion made his excuses and departed, leaving his sister to her wine and satisfaction, he couldn't shake the feeling that they were all dancing to music only Littlefinger could hear. The game being played was larger than taxes, larger than rebellion, perhaps even larger than the Iron Throne itself.
Walking through the Red Keep's corridors, his shortened legs working to maintain a dignified pace, Tyrion considered his options. Warning Ned Stark would be treason. Allowing this to proceed would be murder. And somewhere between those two choices lay a path that might preserve both honor and lives.
But first, he needed to know what Littlefinger truly wanted. And more importantly, he needed to know what Ned Stark actually knew about those questions of hair color and breeding and why would he suspect such a thing? Unless there was some truth he's not seeing...
The only question was whose blood would flow, and whether the realm would survive the bleeding.