A/N: A early Merry Christmas! I'm sure there will be some comments about this chapter so I am looking forward to hearing your thought about this one. Enjoy the new chapter and the... extra in the end! :D
If you want to read up to 10 chapters ahead, patreon: https://www.patreon.com/FullHorizon
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
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Bran's voice came out smaller than he'd intended, a child's whisper swallowed by the vastness of roots and shadow.
"Who are you?"
The figure rose from his throne with a grace that belied his ancient frame. He swept into a bow that was somehow theatrical, a performance crafted for an audience of two. When he spoke, his voice was a harmony of rustling leaves, a sound that belonged to no living man.
"I am Brynden Rivers."
Daenerys gasped. She stepped forward, her earlier wariness forgotten in a rush of recognition.
"Rivers," she breathed. "A Great Bastard of Aegon the Unworthy." Her mind was racing; Bran could feel it through the Force, her thoughts a tumble of lineages and histories. "But you would be more than a century old. How is this possible?"
A smile ghosted across the withered face. "The blood of the dragon runs deep, little one. And there are magics in this world older than our House, older than the Conquest, older than the Long Night itself."
Bran barely heard him. He was staring at that red eye, at the void where the other should be, and feeling the cold, avaricious hunger that radiated from the ancient figure like winter's chill. The three-eyed crow who had haunted his dreams, who had shown him visions of horror and promised power if only Bran would come north, would surrender himself to instruction.
The crow who had shown him Sansa screaming in chains.
"You're the crow," Bran said. Not a question. An accusation. His voice came out harder than he intended, edged with the bluntness that Father said was the Stark way. "Where are we? Why did you bring us here?"
Daenerys turned to look at him, confusion breaking through her awe. "You know him?"
Brynden Rivers tilted his head, studying Bran with that single red eye. The void socket seemed to pulse with its own dark light. When he smiled, it was the smile of a predator who had found particularly interesting prey.
"Patience," Bloodraven said, ignoring Daenerys's question entirely. His gaze remained fixed on Bran. "You lack patience child."
"Answer my question," Bran demanded. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Where are we?"
Bloodraven's smile widened, showing teeth too white, too perfect for such an ancient face. He gestured to the realm around them with one skeletal hand.
"This place has many names. The Realm Between. The Great Weirwood. The maesters in their Citadel have no knowledge of it, for it predates their chains and their candles and their careful cataloging of the world." His voice took on the cadence of a teacher, patient and instructive. "It is the source from which magic drinks. The heart trees you worship in your godswood are but roots reaching into your world, drawing sustenance from this place. And you, boy, are not yet attuned to its true nature."
Bran pushed back against the explanation, against the attempt to cast Bloodraven as teacher rather than threat. He remembered Master Luke's lessons about trusting his feelings, about how the Force could guide him if he let it. And right now, the Force was screaming danger.
"The…gates," Bran said, his voice steady despite the fear coiling in his gut, "showed me a strange silver bird flying through the dark. What was it?"
For a moment, something flickered in that red eye. Surprise, perhaps, or calculation. Then Bloodraven's smile returned, dry and cracking like ancient leather.
"The universe is vaster than your maesters conceive, boy. Our world is but a grain of sand on the shores of Sothoryos. There are other birds, other stars, other realms where men have never walked." He turned his gaze to Daenerys, and Bran felt her shiver under that attention. "And I have shown you both what is to come. The Long Night returns. The cold god wakes. The dead will walk, and the living will fall before them like wheat before the scythe. You are not ready."
Daenerys stepped forward, her earlier confusion giving way to the fear Bran had felt since arriving in this place. "Then teach us," she said. "Show us how to become ready. My dragons are newly hatched, and if you can help us prepare for what's coming, then I beg you—"
"No."
Bran's hand shot out, catching Daenerys's arm. She turned to him, startled, but he kept his eyes locked on Bloodraven. The hunger in the Force had intensified, a killing frost that made his skin prickle with warning.
"He didn't bring us here to teach us," Bran said. His voice was cold, certain. "He brought us here to feed."
The realm fell silent. Even the thrumming network of connections seemed to still, as if the entire space was holding its breath.
Then Bloodraven laughed. It was a terrible sound, dry and rasping, like wind through dead leaves. The desiccated flesh around his eyes crinkled with genuine amusement.
"Clever boy," he rasped. "Clever, clever boy. That star-born pest has taught you to feel the truth of things. An inconvenience, but no matter. You understand enough to make this interesting."
His tone shifted, losing the patient teacher's cadence and taking on something older, something weary and vast. "To understand why you are here is to understand why I went beyond the Wall seeking power. For love. For a world I wished to save." A flicker of genuine pain crossed his withered features. "Shiera. My Shiera Seastar. I would have burned the world for her, would have torn down the Wall itself if she had asked. But she disappeared, and I remained, and I found that the world still needed saving."
He gestured to the darkness beyond the gateways, to the void that pressed against the edges of this silver realm. "The cold gods do not die, children. They do not tire. They do not forgive. I found them beyond the Wall, found their ancient hatred and their endless hunger. To fight them, I needed time. The Children of the Forest gave me what they could, bound me to the weirwoods, extended my life beyond its natural span."
The hunger in the Force became a palpable thing, a killing frost that made Bran's breath mist in the air. "But it was not enough. So I took the rest. I took what I needed from those who gave me wisdom. I have endured for more than a century, children. I have watched kingdoms rise and fall. I have seen the dragons die and return. And through it all, I have prepared for the moment when the Night King would wake."
His red eye blazed brighter, fixing on Bran with terrible intensity. "Now that moment approaches. And I need more. You, boy, your potential is a feast. Magic flows through you like a river, untapped and wild. With your power added to mine, I could strike such a blow against the cold gods that they would never rise again."
He turned to Daenerys, and she took an involuntary step backward. "And you, little dragon. You have served your purpose admirably. You brought the fire back into the world, hatched the dragons that were meant to remain stone forever. Now your life will fuel the final blow. A worthy end for a Targaryen, don't you think? To die saving the world your ancestors conquered?"
Horror dawned on Daenerys's face. She looked at Bran, then back at Bloodraven, understanding finally breaking through her awe at meeting a piece of her family's history.
"You're going to kill us," she whispered.
"I am going to save you," Bloodraven corrected. "There is a difference. Your deaths will have meaning, purpose. You will be the weapons that end the Long Night before it can truly begin."
Daenerys's hand found Bran's. Her fingers were trembling, but her grip was strong. "Run," she hissed.
They turned as one, but the silver ground beneath their feet had changed. It was tar now, thick and clinging, holding them fast. Bran tried to lift his foot and couldn't. Tried to pull away and found himself trapped as surely as if he'd been chained.
No. Not like this. Not after everything Master Luke had taught him, all the hours practicing in the godswood, all the meditation and training and learning to feel the Force flowing through him. He wouldn't die here, wouldn't let this ancient thing consume him like kindling for some fire.
Bran roared. Not with his voice, but with the Force itself. He pushed outward with everything he had, every scrap of power he could muster. For a heartbeat, it worked. The ground beneath them cracked, spiderwebs of light racing through the tar. Daenerys stumbled a step forward, her foot coming free.
He'd created a shield. A barrier between them and Bloodraven's will.
"Impressive," Bloodraven said.
The shield shattered.
Bran felt it break like glass, felt the crushing weight that descended in its wake. His knees buckled. Beside him, Daenerys gasped, her breath stolen by the pressure that bore down on them both.
Then the draining began.
Faint red mist started to bleed from Bran's skin, like a mist that flowed like water toward the weirwood throne. He could see the same happening to Daenerys, her violet eyes wide with terror as the very essence of her was pulled away.
Bran's vision tunneled. The gateways around them blurred, the connections he'd felt so vividly growing distant and muted. He tried to push back again, tried to summon the Force, but it was like grasping at smoke. The power slipped through his fingers, drawn inexorably toward Bloodraven.
"So much potential," the ancient greenseer murmured, his voice layered with a salivating hunger that made Bran's stomach turn. "So much power, wasted on sentiment and childish dreams. That man cannot save you now. He is far away, occupied with his own concerns. He has ruined my plans for the last time."
Bran's legs gave out. He collapsed onto the tar-like ground, Daenerys falling beside him. The mist continued to flow from them, growing thicker, more substantial. Bran could feel himself fading, feel the life being drawn out of him like blood from a wound.
This was how he would die. Not in battle as a knight, not protecting his family, but drained like a wineskin in some cosmic realm he didn't understand. The thought filled him with a rage that had nowhere to go, no outlet, no purpose.
Then the draining stopped.
Completely. Bran gasped, air rushing back into his lungs. Beside him, Daenerys did the same, her chest heaving with desperate breaths.
A new voice filled the void. It was calm, measured, carrying a weight that made even Bloodraven's ancient tones seem thin by comparison. "A fascinating story. A pity my son is preoccupied. But I am not."
A man faded into existence from the mist. He wore simple robes, dark and unadorned, and his face was weathered in a way that spoke of hard years and harder choices. But it was his eyes that caught Bran's attention.
Bran felt an impossible familiarity looking at those eyes. He'd seen their shape before, their color, in Master Luke's face when his teacher was lost in thought about his past.
Bloodraven was wrenched into the air. His weirwood roots splintered with sounds like breaking bones, and his withered body hung suspended by an invisible hand. The red eye blazed with fury and, for the first time, fear.
"Who… are… you…" he choked out.
The man in dark robes offered a small, sad smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "I've had many names. Lord of the Sith. The Emperor's Fist. Darth Vader." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice carried a finality that made the air itself seem to still. "But the only one you need to worry about is the last one."
A soundless crunch resonated through the Force. Bran felt it in his chest, a fundamental unmaking that defied description. Bloodraven's form imploded, collapsing in on itself like a star dying in reverse. His red eye flared once, bright and desperate, and then he was simply gone. Motes of dust and fading silver mist, dispersing into the void.
The weirwood throne crumbled. The petrified roots turned to ash. In the space of three heartbeats, more than a century of existence was erased as if it had never been.
Bran scrambled to his feet, pulling a trembling Daenerys up with him. Gratitude warred with a deep, instinctual wariness. This man had saved them, yes, but the power he'd displayed was terrifying. Absolute. The kind of power that could unmake a person with a thought.
"Thank you," Bran managed. His voice came out small, childish. He hated it, but he couldn't seem to make himself sound braver. "But who are you? Truly?"
The man's sad expression softened. For a moment, something paternal flickered in those eyes, a warmth that reminded Bran achingly of Father. "I am a ghost, boy. A memory. But you can call me Anakin." He glanced between them, and Bran felt the weight of that gaze assessing them, measuring them. "And I am your teacher's father."
Bran's eyes went wide. The fear of moments ago forgotten in a rush of childlike astonishment. "Master Luke's father! That's why you looked..." He trailed off, suddenly uncertain. Master Luke had never spoken of his father, had deflected the few times Bran had asked. There had been pain in that deflection, old wounds that hadn't fully healed.
Anakin gave a faint smirk, charming and roguish in a way that didn't quite match the terrible power he'd just displayed. "Yes, well. My son and I have a complicated history."
His expression shifted, becoming thoughtful. Almost calculating. "Now, what to do with the two of you."
The warmth drained from his voice on those last words, replaced by something cooler, more analytical. Bran felt Daenerys tense beside him, felt his own wariness returning in a rush. They'd been saved from one ancient power only to find themselves at the mercy of another.
Before that thought could fully form into fear, a third voice cut through the mist. It was older than Anakin's, drier, laced with a weary exasperation that somehow managed to sound fond.
"Now, now, Anakin. Let's not be hasty."
An older man stepped into view, his robes the color of sand and sun-bleached bone. His beard was neatly trimmed, his hair going grey at the temples. He moved with a patience that seemed infinite, his hand resting near his belt in a gesture that was somehow both casual and ready.
Daenerys found her voice. "And who are you?"
"My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi." He gave them a kind, tired smile that reached his eyes in a way Anakin's hadn't. "And I believe we have much to discuss."
Bran looked between the two men, trying to understand his situation.
"Where is Master Luke?" Bran asked. "Can you bring him here?"
Obi-Wan's smile turned regretful. "I'm afraid not, young one. We are bound to this realm in ways your teacher is not. We can observe, can sometimes intervene when the need is great, but we cannot leave easily. Your Master Luke walks the living world still."
"Then how are we here?" Daenerys demanded. Her fear was giving way to something sharper, more focused. "How can ghosts intervene in anything?"
"The Force," Anakin said simply. "It binds all things, connects all things. Life and death, past and present, your world and the countless others that spin through the void. We are echoes in that great pattern, sustained by the Force itself."
He moved closer, and Bran resisted the urge to step back. Up close, Anakin's presence was overwhelming. The Force around him was a maelstrom barely contained, power that made even dwarfed Master Luke's abilities.
"The creature who tried to consume you was old," Anakin continued. "Old and hungry and convinced that his cause justified any atrocity. I've known men like that. I was a man like that, once." His expression darkened. "He would have drained you both, used your potential to fuel his war against the darkness he claimed to fight. And in doing so, he would have become the very thing he sought to destroy."
"The dark side," Bran said quietly. Master Luke had spoken of it in their lessons, warned of the seductive nature of power gained through fear and anger and hate.
Anakin's eyes sharpened. "Yes. Your teacher has instructed you well, it seems. The dark side is a path to abilities many would consider unnatural, and once you start down that road, it is difficult to turn back." He paused, and something ancient and painful flickered across his features. "I know this better than most."
Obi-Wan moved to stand beside Anakin, his presence a counterweight to the younger man's intensity. "What my former apprentice means to say is that you have been given a great gift, children. The Force flows through you both, very potently in you young Brandon. But such gifts come with responsibility."
"I understand that," Daenerys said. Her voice was steady now, the trembling gone. "Lord Stark has been teaching me about duty, about the weight of power. We understand what's at stake."
"Do you?" Anakin asked. "Do you truly understand what's coming?"
He gestured, and the gateways around them blazed to life. Through them, Bran saw visions that made his breath catch. The Wall, crumbling under an assault of ice and shadow. Winterfell frozen, its towers reduced to rubble. His father, his mother, his brothers and sisters, all of them fallen before an army of the dead.
"The creature called the Night King is not simply a threat to your North," Anakin said. "He is a wound in the Force itself, a corruption that spreads like rot through wood. If he is not stopped, if he is allowed to consume your world, that corruption will spread beyond your realm. It will reach into the Space Between, into the very fabric of reality."
Bran's legs felt weak. "But we're just children. How are we supposed to stop something like that?"
"You're not," Obi-Wan said gently. "Not alone, at least. But you are pieces of a larger whole, part of a pattern that is only now becoming clear. Your teacher was drawn to your world for a reason. Your brother Jon, or Daemon I suppose, carries a heritage that bridges ice and fire."
He moved closer, kneeling so that he was at eye level with Bran. "The Force has brought you all together, child. You and your siblings, the dragon princess, your teacher from the stars. Each of you has a role to play in what's to come. The question is whether you will be ready when the moment arrives."
"How do we become ready?" Bran asked. "Bloodraven said we weren't prepared, and he was right. I can barely lift a few stones with the Force, and Daenerys only just hatched her dragons. We're not strong enough."
Anakin knelt beside Obi-Wan, his expression serious. "Strength is not merely a matter of power, boy. I was one of the most powerful Force users in the galaxy, and that strength led me to commit atrocities that haunt me still. True strength comes from understanding, from wisdom, from the connections you forge with others."
"Your teacher will continue your training," Obi-Wan added. "And we will watch, will guide when we can. But you must trust in the Force, must trust in each other. The path ahead will be difficult, will demand sacrifices you cannot yet imagine. But if you walk it together, if you remember what you're fighting for, then there is hope."
Bran looked at Daenerys. She met his gaze, and in her violet eyes he saw the same determination he felt building in his own chest. They'd come within moments of death, had been saved by powers they didn't fully understand. But they were still here. Still alive. Still able to fight.
"Please," Bran said, his voice cracking. "Teach us. You could help us prepare."
Anakin's expression softened, but pain flickered across his translucent features. "I wish I could, boy. Truly. But I cannot."
"Why not?" Daenerys stepped forward, her hands clenched at her sides. "You've already helped us once. You saved our lives."
"We intervened because the Force willed it," Obi-Wan said gently. "But we are echoes, memories bound to the cosmic Force. We cannot take you as students, cannot guide you as your teacher does."
Bran felt something cold settle in his chest. The silver ground beneath his feet seemed to pulse with a warning rhythm he hadn't noticed before. "There's another reason, isn't there?"
Obi-Wan exchanged a glance with Anakin. "You are quite perceptive. Yes, this realm is not meant for the living. Already, your connection to your bodies grows strained. Can you feel it?"
Now that he mentioned it, Bran could. A faint tugging sensation, like a thread pulled taut. The longer he stood here, the more distant his physical form felt—as if it were drifting away on some invisible current.
"What do we do now?" Daenerys asked.
"Now," Anakin said, rising to his feet, "you wake up. Return to your bodies, to your world. Prepare yourselves and those you love for the war that's coming."
"Will we see you again?" Bran asked.
Obi-Wan smiled. "Perhaps. The Force works in mysterious ways, young one. We are always with you, in a sense. Every time you reach for the Force, every time you trust in its guidance, you touch the echoes of all who have walked this path before."
The realm around them began to fade. The gateways dimmed, the silver ground growing translucent. Bran felt a pulling sensation, like a rope tied around his chest, drawing him back toward his body.
Bran turned to Daenerys, the silver ground beneath them already beginning to thin like morning mist. "I'd like to meet you," he said. "In person, I mean. When all this is over."
She looked at him, and even here in this strange realm between worlds, her smile carried warmth. "I'll make it happen," she said softly. Then her expression shifted, one pale eyebrow arching. "Though perhaps next time don't go following terrifying old men into mystical visions first."
Heat crept up Bran's neck. He managed a guilty smile, caught between sheepishness and the fading wonder of what they'd just witnessed.
"I'll try," he said, though they both knew he probably wouldn't.
The realm dissolved around them and the last threads of connection snapped, and Bran felt himself pulled violently backward.
"Remember," Anakin called out, his voice growing distant. "The dark side offers power, but it demands everything in return. Stay true to the light, no matter how tempting the shadows become."
"And trust in your teacher," Obi-Wan added. "Luke has walked through darkness and emerged into light. He knows the dangers you'll face, knows the temptations that will come. Listen to him."
The last thing Bran saw before the realm vanished entirely was the two ghosts standing side by side, watching with expressions that mingled hope and sorrow in equal measure.
Then he was falling, tumbling through darkness, rushing back toward the waking world.
Bran's eyes snapped open. He was in his bed at Winterfell, the familiar stone ceiling above him, the sound of wind rattling the shutters. For a moment he lay still, his heart pounding, wondering if it had all been a dream.
He turned his head, the motion sluggish, and found his mother slumped in a chair beside his bed. Her auburn hair hung loose and tangled, her face drawn with exhaustion. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her hands lay limp in her lap, fingers still curled as if she'd been clutching something.
"Mother," Bran whispered.
Catelyn's eyes flew open. She surged from the chair, the wood scraping against stone, and was at his side in an instant. Her hands framed his face, trembling as they touched his cheeks, his forehead, as if to confirm he was real.
"Bran. Oh, Bran." Her voice cracked. She pressed her lips to his brow, then pulled back to look at him, searching his face with desperate intensity. "How do you feel? Does anything hurt? Should I fetch Maester Luwin?"
"I'm fine, Mother. I—"
"You've been asleep for days." Her fingers moved through his hair, gentle but insistent. "You wouldn't wake. We tried everything… " She broke off, swallowing hard.
Bran caught her wrist. The touch grounded him, reminded him this was real. The stone walls, the smell of herbs from the brazier, the way his mother's pulse hammered beneath his palm.
"A lot has happened," he said quietly.
Catelyn's expression shifted. The relief gave way to something harder, sharper. She straightened, though her hand remained on his shoulder.
"Tell me everything."
It wasn't a request.
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Highgarden, The Reach
The tent smelled of oiled leather and steel, a scent that reminded Jon of Winterfell's practice yard. It was a small comfort amid the overwhelming strangeness of Highgarden. Outside, trumpets blared and crowds roared, but here the air was thick with Northern pragmatism.
"By the gods, these Southron smiths care more for leaf patterns than a man's life." Jory's voice carried the particular frustration of a practical man confronted with impractical beauty. He wrestled with a pauldron, trying to fasten the intricate leather straps to Master Luke's shoulder. "How are you supposed to move in this?"
Jon watched as his teacher stood patient but uncomfortable, like a man forced into clothes two sizes too small. The Tyrell plate was magnificent, all scrollwork and polished steel that caught the morning light streaming through the tent's opening. It was also completely wrong for Master Luke.
"It's restrictive," Luke admitted, rotating his arm stiffly. The motion looked wooden, nothing like the fluid grace Jon had seen him display when fighting.
Jon stepped forward to help Jory with the other pauldron. His fingers worked the buckles with practiced ease, though these Southern straps were more complex than Northern ones. "Best get used to it. Seems this is how they fight their tourneys."
Luke's smile was wry, touched with something that might have been amusement or resignation. "A tourney seems like an inefficient way to settle a dispute. You should be out there, Jon. Show them what real swordmanship looks like."
Jon shook his head, echoing the lessons Luke had drilled into him over months of training. "You taught me skill is for battle, not for show. I'll have no need to joust with a man when the dead come walking."
The words fell heavy in the tent. Outside, people laughed and cheered, celebrating games and glory. Inside, three men prepared for war that hadn't yet arrived.
Jory finally managed to buckle the last piece of armor into place. He clapped Luke on the back, the sound ringing against the plate. "There. You look almost like a proper knight. Just try not to trip over some Southern fool out there." He turned to Jon, his weathered face serious beneath the jest. "Speaking of which, you've a different kind of melee to fight. Up in the stands. Don't let the smiling roses prick you."
Jon felt something cold settle in his stomach. He'd faced wildlings in the wolfswood, fought ironborn raiders on the open sea, but the thought of navigating a Southern court filled him with a different kind of dread.
"I'll be careful," he said.
Jory snorted. "Careful doesn't win you anything in places like this. Just remember who you are and what you're about. The rest is noise."
They left Luke to finish his preparations and emerged from the tent into brilliant sunlight. Jon blinked against the glare, momentarily overwhelmed by the assault on his senses. Colors blazed everywhere: banners of green and gold, ladies in silk gowns of rose and cream, knights in armor polished to mirror brightness. Perfume hung thick in the air, mingling with the scent of roasted meat and sweet wine. Laughter rippled through the crowds like water over stones.
It was nothing like the North. Nothing like home.
Jon followed Jory toward the spectator stands, and the stands rose in tiers before them. At the highest point sat King Renly's platform, draped in cloth-of-gold and green silk. Lower down but still elevated was the section reserved for nobles and highborn guests. Below that, the common folk stood in a pressing mass.
Jon's eyes found his friends in the crowd below. Sam's round, earnest face was easy to spot beside Marwyn's bulk. Sarella stood nearby, her sharp eyes taking in everything with the focused intensity of a hawk. Falia looked vibrant and alive in a way Jon hadn't seen at Oakenshield or even Oldtown, her face flushed with excitement.
The distance between them felt like a hundred miles.
A steward in Tyrell livery approached, gesturing toward a seat near the royal platform. Jon hesitated. The invitation was clear, the expectation obvious. He was meant to sit among the highborn, to accept the status they offered him.
He thought of his father. Not Ned Stark, though that man had raised him and loved him. But Rhaegar Targaryen, the prince who'd started a war. What would that man have done?
Jon didn't know. He barely knew who Rhaegar had been, only fragments gleaned from history books.
He knew who Jon Snow was, though. And Jon Snow didn't belong on a platform draped in silk.
Jon moved past the steward's gesture and chose a spot at the farthest edge of the noble section. It fulfilled the invitation without embracing what it offered. He preferred the cold edge of the stone bench to the warmth of a court that wasn't his.
Jory settled beside him with a grunt. "Stubborn as your father," he muttered.
Jon didn't answer. He was too busy fighting the prickling sensation crawling up his spine.
Someone was watching him.
He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, reaching out with the Force as Luke had taught him. Not to manipulate or move, just to feel. To sense.
There.
Lady Olenna Tyrell sat three rows higher and to the left, her small frame almost lost among the younger nobles surrounding her. But her attention was a sharp thing, precise and cutting. She wasn't just looking at him. She was dissecting him.
Jon let his awareness expand carefully, the way he might test thin ice before crossing. He didn't try to read her thoughts. Luke had warned him that was dangerous, an invasion that could be felt. But he could sense the shape of her thinking, the texture of her mind as it worked.
He felt concepts connecting like links in a maester's chain. A blue winter rose, vivid and impossible. A silver-stringed harp, the kind singers used for sad songs. His own face, seen through her eyes.
Then a name, sharp and clear as a blade: Lyanna.
The shock of it nearly broke his concentration. Jon's eyes snapped open, his heart hammering against his ribs. He forced himself to breathe slowly, to keep his face calm.
She knew. Or she suspected. Lady Olenna was putting pieces together, connecting the impossible dots that led from a bastard boy to a dead prince's son.
Jon stared at the empty tourney field and tried to think. How much did she know? What would she do with the knowledge? Was he in danger here, surrounded by Tyrell guards and Southern knights who owed him nothing?
A rustle of silk drew his attention. A scent of roses, sweet and cloying.
"The King seems to be missing his most interesting guest."
The voice was warm and melodic, pitched perfectly to carry just to his ears. Jon didn't turn. He kept his eyes on the field, watching servants prepare the lists.
"Shouldn't the Queen be beside him?"
She laughed softly. The sound was practiced, musical, the kind of laugh that belonged in songs. "The King is well attended. And the view is so much better from down here."
Margaery Tyrell leaned against the rail beside him. Her proximity was deliberate, Jon realized. A public statement. Everyone in the stands could see the new Queen speaking privately with Eddard Stark's bastard.
Through the Force, he felt the complexity of her emotions. Interest, certainly. Curiosity. Calculation. But beneath it all, something genuine he couldn't quite name.
"Your guard looks seasoned," she said, her eyes on the field where Luke was emerging in his borrowed armor. "How long do you expect him to last against my brother Garlan? He is one of the finest swordsmen in the Reach."
It was a test. Jon recognized it the way he'd learned to recognize an opponent's feint in the practice yard. She was measuring his pride, his judgment, his loyalty.
"That's a question for your brother, my lady. Not for me."
The blunt confidence in his own voice surprised him. It was pure North, the kind of answer Ned Stark might have given.
Margaery's smile widened. "Such certainty. I find that refreshing." Her gaze swept the field, then returned to him. "And are you ready for the joust? My other brother, Loras... he lives for the lists."
"He has his reputation to defend. I have my honor. We will see which is the heavier burden."
She studied him for a long moment. Jon forced himself to meet her eyes. They were brown and warm, touched with gold in the sunlight. Pretty eyes. Dangerous eyes.
"I notice you wear no lady's favor," she said. "Not even from the pretty companions you arrived with. Is that a Northern tradition?"
Jon turned to look at her fully, genuinely confused. "I'm here to fight, my lady, not to court. I didn't think I needed one."
Her smile was a masterpiece of gentle correction, the kind a septa might give a child who'd used the wrong fork. "Oh, it's not a need, Lord Snow. Simply... good fortune." Her eyes twinkled with something that might have been amusement. "Though I suspect you'll have your pick of favors before the day is out."
She nodded subtly toward a group of young women in Tyrell colors. They were staring at him with poorly concealed interest, whispering behind their hands and giggling.
Heat crept up Jon's neck. He looked away from the giggling ladies, then back at Margaery, feeling completely out of his depth. In the practice yard, he knew what to do. With a sword in his hand, the world made sense. But this? This game of words and glances and hidden meanings?
He had no training for this.
Before he could form a response, a herald's trumpet blared across the field. The crowd's noise swelled.
"Well," Margaery said, her timing perfect. "It seems the games are about to begin."
She gave him one last look, lingering and deliberate. Through the Force, Jon felt the weight of her attention like a physical thing.
"Good fortune, Jon Snow."
She turned and glided back toward the royal box, her silk gown whispering against the stone. Jon watched her go, his mind racing.
Jory leaned close. "That one's more dangerous than any lance you'll face tomorrow."
Jon nodded slowly. He'd felt it through the Force, the careful layers of her thoughts, the deliberate nature of every word and gesture. Margaery Tyrell was playing a game he barely understood.
On the field below, knights began to gather. Luke stood among them, looking uncomfortable in his borrowed plate. Jon saw Master Marwyn, Falia and Sam in the crowd, craning their necks to see. Sarella had somehow acquired a better vantage point.
The herald's voice rang out, announcing the first melee.
But he couldn't shake the feeling of Margaery's eyes on him, or the sharp precision of Lady Olenna's thoughts, or the weight of secrets that pressed down on him like armor he couldn't remove.
Jory had been right. This was a different kind of melee entirely.
And Jon had no idea if he was winning or losing.
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[EXTRA]
Bran scrambled to his feet, pulling a trembling Daenerys up with him. Gratitude warred with a deep, instinctual wariness. This man had saved them, yes, but the power he'd displayed was terrifying. Absolute. The kind of power that could unmake a person with a thought.
"Thank you," Bran managed. His voice came out small, childish. He hated it, but he couldn't seem to make himself sound braver. "But who are you? Truly?"
The man in dark robes offered a small, sad smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "I've had many names. Lord of the Sith. The Emperor's Fist. Darth Vader." He paused, and something that might have been nostalgia or perhaps regret flickered across his weathered features. "The Youngling Slayer."
Bran blinked. "What?"
"ANAKIN, NO!"