A/N: Honestly was a hard chapter to write and had to re-edit a few extra times. Trying to get the initial interaction between all of them was hard to flow. If you find any inconsistencies, please don't hesitate to let me know and if you enjoyed this chapter, please give it a like :)
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Year 298 AC/7 ABY
Winterfell, The North
Sleep eluded Eddard Stark. The Lord of Winterfell stood at his chamber window, watching moonlight spill across the ancient stones of the courtyard. His breath fogged the glass as the night's chill seeped through the castle walls.
Behind him, the fire had burned low, casting long shadows that seemed to mirror the doubts warring in his mind. Luke Skywalker's demonstration—the pitcher rising in defiance of all natural law—replayed in his thoughts. Such power reminded him of tales Old Nan told the children, stories of the Age of Heroes and magics long forgotten.
Magic, he thought bitterly. The word tasted strange, like iron on his tongue. The North remembered when others forgot, but even Northerners spoke of magic as something belonging to the past.
A soft knock interrupted his brooding.
"Enter," Ned called, turning from the window.
Maester Luwin shuffled in, gray robes rustling against the floor. "You sent for me, my lord? At this hour?"
"What do you make of our guest, Luwin? Speak freely."
The maester's chains clinked as he settled into a chair. "Lord Skywalker's device—his translator—represents workmanship beyond anything in Westeros. Perhaps beyond anything in Essos as well."
"And his… demonstration in my solar?"
Luwin's fingers tapped against his chain. "I am a maester, my lord. We are taught to seek rational explanations." He hesitated. "Yet I was not present to witness what occurred."
"He made a pitcher float through the air. Poured wine without touching it."
The maester's brow furrowed. "Such claims..."
"I saw it myself, Luwin. With these eyes."
"Then I cannot explain it, my lord. Though I have noted... oddities. Young Bran's climbing feats defy explanation. Jon Snow's uncanny bond with his wolf. Arya appears where she shouldn't be, as if from nowhere."
Ned poured two cups of wine, his movements deliberate. "The deserter spoke of White Walkers."
"The ravings of a broken man, surely."
"Perhaps." Ned handed Luwin a cup. "Yet Skywalker speaks of darkness beyond the Wall, and he has never met the deserter."
They drank in silence. Beyond the window, clouds obscured the moon, darkening the yard.
"If he speaks true," Ned said finally, "my children may need these skills he offers."
"My lord, such practices—"
"Could save their lives." Ned's voice hardened. "Winter is coming, Luwin. I feel it in my bones. A winter unlike any we've known."
The maester nodded slowly. "What will you do?"
"I will allow this training, but in absolute secrecy. None beyond our walls must know."
"And Lady Stark?"
"Catelyn will know. She deserves that much." Ned drained his cup. "But first, I would see Skywalker's skill with a blade. A man who would teach my children must prove his worth in our ways."
"You mean to test him in the practice yard?"
"Aye. The children speak of knights and legends. Let us see if Skywalker fights as strangely as he speaks." Ned's gray eyes fixed on the distant treeline. "Send word at first light. I would break my fast with our guest, then meet him with steel in hand."
Luwin bowed and departed, leaving Ned alone with his thoughts once more. The fire sputtered out, plunging the chamber into darkness. In that moment, Ned felt the weight of the North upon his shoulders—and for the first time in many years, he feared he might not be strong enough to bear it.
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The morning air bit sharp against Jon's cheeks as he entered the practice yard, his breath forming small clouds in the cold. Ghost padded silently beside him, the direwolf's red eyes scanning the empty space before settling near the armory wall. Jon's muscles still ached from yesterday's exercises, but the familiar weight of his practice sword brought comfort as he drew it from its sheath.
"Starting without me?" Robb's voice carried across the yard. His half-brother strode through the archway, auburn hair catching the weak northern sun. "Thought you might spend all morning brooding in the godswood."
Jon rolled his shoulders, testing his range of motion. "Someone has to pray for your sword work."
"It seems your prayers have been answered." Robb grinned, selecting a blunted blade from the rack. The steel rang softly as he tested its balance.
They circled each other, boots crunching on frost-hardened dirt. The sound carried sharp in the morning stillness, punctuated only by the distant clang of the smithy beginning its day's work. Jon watched Robb's footwork—his brother favored his right side, always had since that tumble from the broken tower when they were boys. The memory flickered and vanished as steel met steel with a crack that sent vibrations singing up Jon's arm.
The impact jarred his teeth, but Jon twisted away, using the momentum to bring his blade around in a tight arc. Robb's parry came a heartbeat late—the edge of Jon's practice sword caught his brother's shoulder, not hard enough to bruise through the padded leather, but enough to score.
"Getting slow," Jon taunted, dancing back from Robb's counterstrike. His breath misted between them, and he tasted iron at the back of his throat from the cold air and exertion.
"Getting cocky." Robb's jaw tightened, that particular set that meant he was done playing. He pressed forward with sudden fury, launching a series of cuts that rang out like hammer blows. Each strike came faster than the last—high, low, thrust, sweep—forcing Jon to give ground across the packed earth.
Their swords wove silver patterns in the weak morning light, each testing the other's defenses with the intimate knowledge of a hundred shared battles. Jon felt the rhythm of combat settle into his bones—block, parry, thrust, retreat. His muscles remembered this dance even as they protested yesterday's training. Sweat began to bead beneath his jerkin despite the cold, trickling down his spine. Robb's technique was textbook perfect, each form executed exactly as Ser Rodrik had drilled into them since they could barely lift wooden swords. The master-at-arms would have been proud.
But Jon had spent countless extra hours in this yard when others supped or slept, pushing himself until his palms bled and his arms shook. Every sneer, every "Lord Snow," every reminder of his bastard blood—he'd channeled it all into the blade. While Robb learned to be a lord, Jon had learned to fight like he had nothing to lose.
The difference showed now. Where Robb's movements were precise and practiced, Jon's had become something else—fluid, unpredictable, shaped by desperation as much as training. He saw the moment Robb realized it too, saw the flicker of uncertainty in those Tully-blue eyes.
There. Robb overextended on a downward cut, trying to break through Jon's guard with brute force. The opening lasted less than a heartbeat, but Jon had been waiting for it. He sidestepped smooth as water, brought his pommel up in a sharp strike that caught Robb's wrist with a meaty thwack. His brother's fingers spasmed, grip loosening just enough. Jon hooked his leg behind Robb's knee and pulled.
Robb hit the ground hard, breath whooshing out in a white cloud. The frozen dirt would leave bruises, Jon knew. Before his brother could roll away or bring his sword up, Jon planted a boot on Robb's sword arm and laid his blade against the exposed throat. The dulled edge pressed just hard enough to dimple skin.
"Yield?" Jon asked, breathing hard. His pulse hammered in his ears, and he could smell his own sweat mixing with the iron-and-leather scent of the practice yard.
Robb's scowl lasted three heartbeats before melting into that rueful laugh Jon knew so well—the one that said his brother's pride was stung but not broken. "Aye, I yield." His voice came out rough, and he swallowed against the blade. "Now help me up, you smug bastard, before my arse freezes to the ground."
Jon grinned despite himself, the familiar insult carrying only warmth between them. He pulled the sword away and offered his hand. Robb's fingers were cold even through their gloves as Jon hauled him upright. His brother winced, rolling the wrist Jon had struck.
"Ser Rodrik teach you that pommel trick?" Robb asked, brushing dirt and frost from his breeches with his good hand.
"Learned it from watching you." Jon sheathed his practice sword.
Movement near the keep's entrance caught his eye—their father emerged with Luke Skywalker at his side. The stranger wore simple northern clothes now, wool and leather instead of his strange black garments, but something about his bearing remained foreign. The way he moved, perhaps. Too fluid. Too aware.
"Speaking of our mysterious guest," Robb muttered, brushing dirt from his breeches.
Lord Stark's face revealed nothing as he approached with measured steps. Behind him, Jory and Alyn flanked Skywalker like guards escorting a prisoner, though the man walked freely.
"Jon. Robb." Their father's voice carried its usual gravity. "You fight well this morning."
"Jon fights well," Robb corrected. "I eat dirt well."
The ghost of a smile touched Lord Stark's lips before his expression hardened again. He turned to his guards. "Jory. Alyn. Our guest wishes to demonstrate his skill with a blade. Test him."
Jon exchanged a quick glance with Robb. Their father's tone brooked no argument, but the request itself was strange. Why test a guest in such a manner?
"My lord," Jory said carefully, "perhaps one of the younger men—"
"No. I want experienced fighters." Lord Stark's grey eyes fixed on Skywalker. "Blunted steel only."
Luke inclined his head, accepting a practice sword from Alyn. He held it awkwardly for a moment, as if unfamiliar with its weight, then adjusted his grip. Something in his stance shifted—subtle but unmistakable. Jon had seen master swordsmen before, men who made steel an extension of their will. This was different. This was...
"Jon! Robb!" Arya's voice shattered his thoughts. His little sister raced across the yard, Bran and Sansa trailing behind. "What's happening? Why is everyone—"
"Hush," Sansa chided, though her blue eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Father's testing Lord Skywalker."
"He's not a lord," Arya protested, but she fell silent as Jory and Alyn spread apart, preparing to attack from two angles.
Jon found himself moving closer to his siblings, Robb beside him. "This should be interesting," Robb murmured.
Jory struck first, a probing thrust that Skywalker deflected with minimal effort. Alyn came from the left, trying to catch him off-balance. Luke pivoted, his blade sweeping both attacks aside in a single fluid motion. The guards pressed harder, working in tandem as they'd done in real battles. Steel rang against steel in a rapid staccato.
Then Skywalker moved, and Jon's breath caught.
It wasn't swordplay as he knew it. Luke flowed between their attacks like water between stones, each movement precise yet effortless. His blade traced impossible arcs, deflecting strikes that should have landed, finding openings that shouldn't exist. Jory stumbled back from a strike he couldn't quite block. Alyn's sword flew from nerveless fingers after a twist of Luke's wrist that Jon couldn't follow.
Within heartbeats, both guards knelt in the dirt, Luke's practice blade hovering at their throats.
"Seven hells," Robb breathed.
Jon couldn't speak. His mind raced, trying to reconcile what he'd witnessed with everything Ser Rodrik had taught them about swordplay. Those movements, that speed, the way Luke had seemed to know where each attack would come before it landed...
Their father's expression remained carved from stone as he approached his children. "Robb. Jon. Sansa. Arya. Bran." He looked at each of them in turn. "Lord Skywalker has agreed to serve as your new instructor in the fighting arts."
"Father?" Sansa's voice pitched high with surprise.
"But Ser Rodrik—" Robb began.
"Will continue your regular lessons." Lord Stark's tone allowed no debate. "Lord Skywalker will provide... additional training. Private training. You will speak of this to no one outside our family. Is that understood?"
Jon nodded with his siblings, though his mind churned with questions. He caught Luke's eye across the yard. The man offered a slight smile, and for just a moment, Jon could have sworn he felt something—a presence, a weight, like being watched by some great beast in the darkness.
Ghost stirred beside him, a low whine escaping the direwolf pup's throat. Jon's hand found his companion's fur, but his eyes remained fixed on their new teacher.
What are you? he wondered. What secrets do you hold?
----------------------------------------------------
Robb pushed the last bite of black bread around his trencher, watching the grease congeal in the cooling mutton broth. Across the table, Jon caught his eye and nodded toward the door. Time to meet their mysterious new instructor.
"Where are you lot sneaking off to?" Theon drawled from his seat, lips curled in that perpetual smirk that made Robb want to plant a fist in his teeth.
"Father requested we meet him in the godswood after the meal." The lie came smooth as silk. Father had been clear—no one outside the family could know about these private lessons.
Theon let out a harsh bark of laughter. "The sacred grove? Planning to have the old gods bless your sword arms?"
Robb stood, ignoring the jibe. His siblings rose with him—Jon steady and watchful, Arya practically vibrating with excitement, Bran trying to look older than his seven years. Even Sansa joined them, though she'd barely touched her food.
The path to the godswood wound through the oldest part of Winterfell, where the stones remembered the Kings of Winter. Their boots crunched on frost-brittle grass as they passed beneath the shadow of the First Keep. The air tasted of coming snow and old earth.
"Think he'll teach us that spinning move?" Arya's voice cut through the quiet. "The one where he—"
"Arya." Sansa's reproach carried all their mother's hauteur. "Ladies don't discuss swordplay."
"Good thing I'm not a lady then."
Robb bit back a smile.
The godswood opened before them, ancient sentinels standing guard over sacred ground. Red leaves rustled overhead, whispering secrets in the old tongue. At the heart of it all, beneath the bone-white branches of the weirwood, Luke Skywalker sat cross-legged on the cold earth. His eyes were closed, hands resting on his knees, still as the carved face above him.
They approached in silence, even Arya subdued by the weight of the place. The smell of sap and decay filled Robb's nostrils—life and death mingled, as the old gods preferred.
Bran crept closer, craning his neck. "Is he sleeping?"
Luke's eyes opened. Not suddenly, not with a start, but smooth as water flowing over stone. Those strange blue eyes—too light for a northerner, too knowing for his years—fixed on Bran with an intensity that made Robb's hand twitch toward his sword hilt.
"I was listening." Luke's voice carried that odd accent, words shaped by distant lands. He unfolded from his position with liquid grace, rising to face them. "Thank you for coming."
"Father said you would train us." Jon's words held challenge and curiosity in equal measure.
"Train." Luke seemed to taste the word. "Yes, though perhaps not in the way you expect." He gestured for them to sit. "Please."
They arranged themselves in a half-circle on the cold ground. Robb felt the damp seeping through his breeches but held his tongue. Whatever game this was, he'd play it through.
"Tell me," Luke began, settling back into his cross-legged position, "what do you know of the… magic that binds all living things?"
Silence stretched between them. Robb glanced at Jon, who shrugged minutely.
"The old gods?" Bran ventured. "They're in the trees and stones and—"
"Yes and no." Luke's smile held secrets. "The old gods and the new—all names for something greater. Something that flows through every living thing, connecting us." He held up a hand, fingers spread. "In the lands beyond the Sunset Sea, we call it the Force."
"Sounds like hedge wizard nonsense," Robb said, testing.
Luke's smile widened. "Does it? You've felt it, Robb Stark. When you know your brother's mind without words. When you sense danger before it strikes. When your hand finds your sword hilt in the dark."
A chill ran down Robb's spine that had nothing to do with the cold ground.
"My teachers trained me to understand this power," Luke continued. "As I will teach you, to feel its currents, to let it guide my actions. Where I come from, those who use the Force for the betterment of others are called 'Jedi.'"
"Jedi." Arya rolled the strange word on her tongue like a sweet she'd never tasted. "Are you saying we could learn this?"
"Not could. Will." Luke's expression grew grave, the shadows beneath the weirwood deepening the lines around his eyes. "The Force flows strongly in your bloodline and I can teach you to use your gifts to those in need and each other."
Sansa shifted beside Robb, her discomfort palpable. "The Seven teach that sorcery is an abomination. That only the gods should wield such power."
"And yet your house keeps the old gods," Luke observed. "Tell me, Lady Sansa, is the weirwood's sight sorcery? When your brother climbs walls no man should scale, is that witchcraft? When your own wolf answers your unspoken call?"
"That's different," she insisted, but doubt colored her voice.
"Is it?" Luke rose again, smooth and sudden. "Let me show you something."
He extended one hand toward a fallen branch near the pool. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the wood twitched. Rose. Floated through the air as if carried by invisible hands, spinning slowly until it came to rest in Luke's palm.
Robb scrambled backward, heart hammering. Beside him, his siblings recoiled—all save Bran, who leaned forward with wonder bright in his eyes.
"Sorcery!" Sansa gasped. "Demon work!"
"The only aberrations here are those we birth from terror and willful blindness." Luke's words hung steady as the suspended timber. He let the branch settle into the earth with deliberate care. "This is merely another thread in the tapestry of life."
"You've lost your wits." Jon's words scraped raw from his throat. "This isn't...we can't—"
"Can't you?" Luke remained motionless as they edged away, a statue beneath the bleeding leaves. "Your father has named me your instructor. You may flee, but we will meet again tomorrow. And the day after. Until you understand what you are."
Sansa broke first, silk skirts rustling as she fled toward the keep. Robb moved to follow, protective instinct flaring, but Luke's voice stopped him.
"Let her go. Fear must be faced in its own time. To force understanding is the way of tyrants."
Robb turned back, torn between duty to his sister and his father's command. "You speak of understanding, but you show us impossibilities."
"I show you truth." Luke's gaze swept over them. "All of you have the gift. Raw, untrained, but undeniable." He paused. "Without training, it will manifest in dreams, in moments of extreme emotion. With training..."
He didn't finish, but Robb heard the promise. Power. Understanding. Control over forces that terrified and thrilled in equal measure.
"Show us," Bran said, small voice carrying surprising steel. "Show us what we could become."
Luke studied the boy for a long moment. "Very well. But first, you must learn to feel." He sank back to the ground, gesturing for them to join him. "Close your eyes. Breathe. Feel the earth beneath you, the air around you. Feel the life of the godswood—every root, every leaf, every creature that crawls or flies."
Robb wanted to protest, to demand real training with steel and strength. But Jon was already settling into position, and he'd not be shown up by his younger brother. He closed his eyes.
"Good," Luke murmured. "Now reach out. Not with your hands. With your mind. Feel the connections between all things. The Force flows through you, around you, binding you to everything that lives."
At first, Robb felt only cold earth and creeping damp. Then... something else. A warmth that had nothing to do with temperature. A presence that pressed against his mind like Grey Wind's wet nose against his palm. He gasped, eyes flying open.
Around him, his siblings sat with various expressions of wonder and fear. Jon's face had gone pale, knuckles white where he gripped his knees. Arya grinned fierce and wild. Bran seemed to glow, joy radiating from every line of his small body.
"What—" Robb's voice cracked. He swallowed, tried again. "What was that?"
"The beginning," Luke said simply. "The first step on a path that will change everything you thought you knew about yourselves and your world."
Robb met Jon's eyes, saw his own mix of terror and exhilaration reflected there. Whatever they'd agreed to, whatever Father had set in motion, there was no going back now. The godswood held its breath around them, ancient powers stirring in response to this new teaching.
"When do we start?" Arya demanded, bouncing on her knees.
Luke's smile was answer enough.