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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Kingslanding, The Crownlands
The scream that tore from Robert's throat could have woken dragons. Tyrion stumbled through the doorway behind the king, his heart hammering against his ribs, and the sight that greeted him would be seared into his memory until his dying day.
Cersei scrambled backward across silk sheets, her golden hair a tangled mess, her naked body gleaming with sweat in the candlelight. But it wasn't his sister's nudity that made Tyrion's blood turn to ice but the man beside her, equally naked, reaching desperately for something, anything to cover himself.
Jaime.
"WHAT IN THE SEVEN HELLS ARE YOU DOING, CERSEI?" Robert's voice shook the very stones of the Red Keep. "WHAT IN THE FUCK IS GOING ON?"
The warhammer trembled in the king's grip, his knuckles white as bone. Behind Tyrion, Ser Meryn Trant made a strangled sound, his hand frozen halfway to his sword hilt. The Kingsguard's face had gone the color of curdled milk, his eyes wide with the kind of horror reserved for witnessing the impossible made flesh.
"Robert—" Cersei's voice cracked as she pulled a sheet to her chest, but the damage was done. The air reeked of sex and lavender oil, and there was no mistaking what had been happening moments before.
"You INCESTUOUS WHORE!" Robert's face had gone beyond purple to something darker, more dangerous. Veins bulged at his temples as he rounded on Jaime. "And you—you sister-fucking piece of shit! HOW LONG? HOW FUCKING LONG HAVE YOU TWO BEEN RUTTING BEHIND MY BACK?"
Jaime rolled off the far side of the bed, his movements graceful even in his nakedness, but his sword belt lay across the room, draped over a chair with his golden cloak. Cersei shrieked something incomprehensible, her hands clutching the sheets like a drowning woman clutching driftwood.
Tyrion's mind reeled, struggling to process what his eyes were telling him. He'd suspected, gods help him, he'd suspected something, but to see it laid bare like this... The implications crashed over him in waves.
They're Jamie's bastards. Every last one of them. Even… Joffery.
"Robert, please—" Cersei started again, but Robert's roar drowned her out.
"PLEASE? You dare say please to me?" His grip on the warhammer tightened, the leather creaking. "I should have known. I should have fucking known but I was too drunk, too stupid to see what was right in front of me."
Tyrion tried to find his voice, tried to summon some clever words that might defuse this powder keg before it exploded. "Your Grace, perhaps we should—"
But Robert couldn't hear him, wouldn't hear anyone. The king's eyes had gone cold, the drunken haze burned away by pure rage. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to something far more terrifying than his bellowing.
"You and your whore of a sister will die now, Kingslayer."
Robert moved with surprising speed for a man of his size and state of inebriation. The warhammer whistled through the air as he charged around the bed toward Jaime, who dove aside at the last second. The weapon smashed into the bedpost, sending splinters flying.
"ROBERT, STOP!" Cersei screamed, her voice raw with panic. She turned to Ser Meryn, who stood frozen in the doorway. "Help him! That's your sworn brother! HELP HIM!"
But Ser Meryn Trant remained paralyzed, his face a mask of indecision and terror. His oath was to protect the royal family, but which oath took precedence when the king was trying to kill a Kingsguard?
Robert swung again, and this time Jaime wasn't quite fast enough. Though he twisted away from the hammer's head, Robert's meaty fist caught him with a backhand that sent Jaime sprawling across the floor. The naked knight skidded on the polished stone, coming to rest near his sword belt.
Tyrion's paralysis broke. He grabbed Ser Meryn's arm, the mail cold under his fingers. "Help him, you fool!"
"I—I can't—the king—"
"Listen to me very carefully," Tyrion hissed, his mind racing through calculations of survival. "I know my sister owns you. I know about the gold she's been slipping you, the promises she's made. If Jaime dies, you die. If you help him, my father will give you a castle and enough gold to drown in. Choose. Now."
Greed flickered in Meryn Trant's eyes, overriding honor, overriding sense. The knight drew his sword and stepped forward just as Robert raised his warhammer above the prone Jaime.
The blade rang against the hammer's haft, and Robert spun with shocking agility. "TRAITOROUS WHORESON OF A KINGSGUARD!"
Robert's strength was legendary even in his decline, and he proved it now. He shoved Meryn back with raw power, the knight stumbling despite his training. The warhammer came around in a brutal arc that Meryn barely deflected.
But the distraction had given Jaime the seconds he needed. His fingers closed around his sword's hilt, the naked steel singing as he drew it from its sheath.
Robert must have heard it, or perhaps some warrior's instinct warned him. He started to turn, the warhammer beginning its descent toward Meryn's head.
The blade punched through Robert's back with a wet sound that Tyrion would never forget. It emerged from his chest, crimson spreading across the king's wine-stained shirt. Robert's eyes went wide, the warhammer slipping from nerveless fingers to clatter on the stone.
"For Cersei," Jaime whispered, twisting the blade.
Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, fell to his knees. Blood bubbled from his lips as he looked down at the steel protruding from his chest. Then, impossibly, he laughed. A wet, choking sound that sprayed red across the floor.
"Ned was right about you," Robert gasped, his voice already fading. "He'll... he'll put your head on a spike. His blade... will find you soon enough."
The light faded from those blue eyes, and the king who'd won his throne with a warhammer died naked and betrayed on his wife's bedroom floor.
The silence that followed was deafening. Tyrion stared at his brother, still naked, still holding the bloody sword. Jaime's face had gone blank, empty as a corpse's.
"Why?" The word escaped Tyrion's lips before he could stop it. One simple word carrying the weight of a thousand questions.
Jaime didn't answer. It was Cersei who spoke, pulling herself from the bed with the sheet wrapped around her like armor. Her eyes glittered with something that might have been triumph or madness or both.
"For love," she said, and her smile was terrible to behold.
Tyrion looked between them. His golden siblings, beautiful and damned—then down at Robert's cooling corpse, blood pooling beneath him like spilled wine. "What have you done?" His voice came out smaller than he'd intended, almost childlike. "Gods above and below, what have you done?"
Cersei's expression shifted, sharpening into something calculating. She stepped over Robert's body without a glance, moving to Jaime's side. "What do you mean 'we,' brother?"
Tyrion's mouth went dry. "I don't—"
"It was Eddard Stark," Cersei said, her voice gaining strength with each word. "He sent assassins after Robert. After Jaime too. My brave brother fought them off, but not before they struck down the king."
The words shook Tyrion. "No one will believe that. Ned Stark sending assassins? The man's honor is legendary!"
"It doesn't matter what the world believes," Cersei interrupted, her green eyes bright with a fever-light. "It matters what my son, the new king, says. And the rest of the realm follows."
Tyrion felt the floor shifting beneath him, the world tilting on its axis. He looked to Jaime, desperate for some sign of sanity. "You can't possibly agree with this stupidity."
Jaime's head moved in the barest of nods, his eyes never leaving the blood on his sword.
Cersei turned to Ser Meryn Trant, who stood trembling, his sword still in hand. "Thank you for your service to House Lannister, Ser Meryn. Your loyalty will not be forgotten."
The knight managed a jerky nod, his face the color of old parchment. He opened his mouth, perhaps to speak, perhaps to scream.
Jaime moved like lightning. One moment he stood still as stone, the next his blade swept across Meryn Trant's throat. The knight's eyes widened in shock and betrayal as blood fountained from the wound. He dropped to his knees, hands clutching uselessly at his opened throat, then pitched forward to land beside his king.
"Now the truth remains in the family," Cersei said, her gaze settling on Tyrion with the weight of mountains.
The blood spread across the floor, mingling Robert's with Meryn's, creeping toward Tyrion's boots. He stood frozen, his brilliant mind finally, catastrophically, failing him. In all his calculations, all his schemes and contingencies, he'd never imagined this.
The game had changed. The board had been overturned.
And Tyrion Lannister, for perhaps the first time in his life, had no idea what move to make next.
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Oldtown, The Reach
Luke turned the holocron over in his hands, its crystalline surface catching the amber light streaming through the inn's grimy windows. The device felt warm against his palm, pulsing with residual Force energy from Brandon Stark's ancient recording. Around him, the common room buzzed with midday conversation, merchants haggling over grain prices while sailors nursed their ales and complained about the harbor fees.
Ghost lay sprawled across the floor beside their table, his red eyes tracking every patron who dared venture too close. Falia sat cross-legged on the bench, running her fingers through the direwolf's thick fur with obvious delight. The massive wolf tolerated her attention with surprising patience, occasionally shifting to offer a different spot for scratching. When Amidala padded closer, Falia tentatively extended her other hand. Luke's companion sniffed once before allowing a brief touch to her snout, then retreated to her position by the door.
"They're magnificent," Falia breathed, her voice carrying genuine wonder. "I've never felt anything this soft in my life."
Luke set the holocron aside in his pocket and picked up the piece of dragonglass Marwyn had given him. The volcanic glass felt oddly alive in his grip, resonating with the Force in ways that defied his understanding. He'd encountered kyber crystals, Sith artifacts, even the cave on Dagobah where the dark side pooled like stagnant water. But this simple obsidian shard hummed with possibilities he couldn't quite grasp.
The texts he'd studied with Marwyn painted dragonglass as merely a weapon against the Others, a sharp enough to pierce their frozen flesh, breaking whatever dark magic animated them. Yet when Luke held it, he sensed layers of potential. The Force flowed through it differently than through kyber, less focused but somehow more primal. He thought of Brandon Stark's message, how the ancient Jedi had fought alongside the Children of the Forest. Had they discovered properties in dragonglass that went beyond simple weaponry?
Well they did figure out how to use these to communicate at far distances… hmm can Glass Candles help communicate between planets?
The weather manipulation still baffled him. Even Palpatine at his height couldn't summon winter across continents or raise armies of the dead on such a scale. The Night King commanded forces that transcended individual power, tapping into something fundamental about this world's connection to the Force.
"—won't abandon you after what you did for me." Falia's forceful declaration pulled Luke from his contemplation. She sat rigid on the bench, jaw set with determination. "You saved me from that monster. I'm going with you to Highgarden."
Jon sighed, setting down his cup of watered wine. "Falia, you don't understand what you're risking. The Tyrells summoned us because of what happened at Oakenshield. You were the victim there, not the perpetrator. They have no quarrel with you."
"They have no quarrel with you either," Falia shot back. "You defended a woman from rape. Any lord with honor would praise you for it."
Jory shifted uncomfortably on his stool, his weathered face creased with concern. "With respect, my lady, the Reach lords don't always see matters the way we do in the North. Lord Hewett's their bannerman. They might take offense at the... disruption."
"Disruption?" Falia's voice rose. "Is that what they call it when—"
"I can protect us," Luke interjected calmly, though he kept his voice low enough not to carry to neighboring tables. " And the Tyrells won't risk open conflict over this."
Jory's expression grew troubled. He'd served House Stark long enough to speak plainly when needed. "Master Luke, I mean no disrespect to your abilities. Gods know I've seen what you can do. But if the Tyrells decide to hold Jon… or any of us as hostages, it won't matter how many men you can throw through the air. Lord Stark would have to respond, and that response would ripple across the Seven Kingdoms."
The captain leaned forward, his voice dropping further. "One incident at a minor lord's castle is one thing. But if we leave Highgarden through violence? That's the North attacking the second most powerful house in the realm. It would mean war."
Jon looked between Luke and Jory, conflict clear in his grey eyes. The boy had grown since leaving Winterfell and not just in his mastery of the Force, but in his understanding of consequences. Luke could feel Jon's emotions through their bond: duty warring with pragmatism, honor against survival.
"Jory's right," Jon said quietly. "I trust you completely, Master Luke. Your teachings have given me strength I never imagined. But I can't bring shame to House Stark by running from a summons. Lord Stark raised me. He protected me my whole life, even when..." Jon's hand clenched around his cup. "Even when it cost him. I won't repay that by making him look like he harbors outlaws."
The emotion in Jon's voice struck Luke deeply. This wasn't the bitter bastard who'd discovered his parentage in Winterfell's crypts. This was a young man who'd found peace with his identity, who understood that family transcended all else. Luke thought of Owen and Beru Lars, who'd raised him as their own despite the danger. They'd died for that choice, but they'd given him the foundation to become who he was meant to be.
"You're assuming they mean to take you hostage," Jory continued, addressing Jon directly. "You might be Lord Stark's bastard to them, but you're still Lord Stark's son. Taking you would force his hand as surely as taking Robb or Bran would."
Jon's laugh held no humor. "A bastard's not worth the same as a trueborn son. Everyone knows that."
"Not to Lord Stark," Jory said firmly. "And the Tyrells are clever enough to know it. One look at how he raised you would tell them that. You think Lady Olenna hasn't heard about the bastard who trains alongside the heir?" Jory shook his head. "They take you, Lord Stark marches south with every sword in the North. That's not a bluff, and the Queen of Thorns knows it."
Luke set down the dragonglass and leaned back in his chair. Through the Force, he could sense the fear beneath Jory's logic—the man genuinely cared for Jon, had watched him grow from boy to young man. But there was truth in his words too. The political web of Westeros was just as complex as anything Luke had encountered in the New Republic. Every action created ripples, every choice carried weight beyond its immediate consequences.
"Jon's right about duty," Luke said finally. "And Jory's right about the risks. But you're all forgetting something." He met each of their gazes in turn. "I made a promise to Lord Stark before we left Winterfell. I swore I would protect Jon, that I would never allow him or any of his siblings to become hostages."
Luke's hand moved to rest on the lightsaber hidden beneath his cloak. "I don't make promises lightly. The Force brought me… here for a reason, and that reason involves the Stark children. Whatever happens at Highgarden, Jon will leave of his own free will."
"And if they try to stop us?" Falia asked.
"Then they'll learn what I am truly capable of." Luke's voice carried no boast, just simple fact. "But it won't come to that. They want answers about Oakenshield, perhaps some form of compensation. We'll give them their answers, Jon will show proper respect, and we'll depart peacefully."
Jon studied his master's face. "You seem very certain."
"The Force shows me possibilities, not certainties." Luke stood, gathering the holocron and dragonglass. "We should go. Lord Leyton expects us."
As they rose to leave, Ghost and Amidala flanking them, Luke noticed how Jon walked with more confidence than he had just weeks ago. The boy was becoming a man, finding his own path between the honor Ned Stark had taught him and the power Luke had awakened. It was a difficult balance, one Luke himself still struggled with.
The streets of Oldtown pressed close around them as they made their way toward the Hightower's base. Merchants hawked their wares while septons preached about the Seven's mercy. The smell of fish and tar from the harbor mixed with bread from the bakeries and waste from the gutters. It was life in all its messy complexity, so different from the sterile corridors of Imperial ships or the ancient temples of the Jedi.
The Hightower loomed before them, and Luke sensed Lord Leyton's presence at its peak, waiting with questions of his own. Time to play the game a little longer, to dance around truths and half-truths until they could return to their real purpose.
"Remember," Luke said to Jon as they approached the entrance, "we tell them only what they need to know. The Force is our advantage, but mystery is our shield."
Jon nodded, his hand instinctively moving to where his sword. "And if Lord Leyton presses about my... heritage?"
"Then we let him wonder. Uncertainty is more useful than confirmation." Luke paused at the tower's base, looking up at the impossible height. "The Tyrells want to understand what they're dealing with. We'll give them just enough to satisfy their curiosity without revealing our true strength."
"Politics," Jon muttered with distaste.
"Survival," Luke corrected. "Until we understand what threatens this world, we need to avoid making enemies." He thought again of the Night King, of Brandon Stark's incomplete message.
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The private dining room in the Hightower castle felt smaller than it was, despite the vaulted ceiling that disappeared into shadow. Luke ran his fingers along the polished oak table, sensing the age of the wood through the Force, centuries of meals, negotiations, and secrets soaked into its grain. Winter roses filled a crystal vase at the center, their pale blue petals catching the afternoon light that streamed through tall windows.
Jon shifted in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. His grey eyes tracked the door with the wariness of someone who'd learned that summons from powerful lords rarely meant anything good. Ghost lay sprawled at his feet, massive head resting on his paws, while Amidala maintained her vigil by Luke's chair, her amber eyes never leaving the entrance as he scratched her neck.
The door opened without announcement. Lord Leyton Hightower entered first, his bearing regal despite his advanced years, silver hair gleaming in the light. Behind him glided Lady Malora with her dreamy expression as they sharpened the moment she saw the direwolves.
"Oh!" The sound escaped her like a child discovering presents. She clasped her hands together, silver hair swaying as she practically bounced on her toes. "They're even more magnificent than the smoke showed me."
Leyton's own composure cracked at the sight of the massive wolves. His eyes widened, tracking from Ghost's white fur to Amidala's grey coat. "By the Seven... actual direwolves in the south. Willas would be ecstatic if he ever lays his eyes on them."
Malora was already moving forward, then stopped abruptly, tilting her head at an odd angle. She looked between Jon and Luke with such naked hope that Luke found himself nodding before she'd even asked. Jon followed suit, a slight smile tugging at his mouth.
Ghost lifted his head as Malora approached, studying her with those unsettling red eyes. She dropped to her knees without hesitation, burying her fingers in his thick fur. "Hello, beautiful one," she whispered. "You dream of snow and blood, don't you? Yes, yes you do."
The direwolf's tail thumped once against the floor, a rare display of approval from the usually aloof creature. Amidala padded over, nudging Malora's shoulder with her snout. The woman laughed, a tinkling sound like wind chimes, and wrapped an arm around each wolf.
"They sing together," she murmured, pressing her face against Ghost's neck. "Mother and son, two notes in perfect harmony. How lovely."
Leyton cleared his throat, though his gaze remained fixed on his daughter's interaction with the direwolves. He moved to the table and settled into his chair with deliberate care, never taking his eyes off Luke and Jon. The awe in his expression was unmistakable—not the calculated interest of a politician, but the wonder of a scholar confronting the impossible.
Luke felt the weight of Leyton's thoughts pressing against his mental shields. The old lord's mind buzzed with questions, theories, connections forming and reforming like constellation patterns. Time to cut through the dance.
"It seems Marwyn told you everything."
Leyton's laugh came short and sharp. "Everything? My dear… Master Luke, Marwyn is many things—brilliant, unconventional, perhaps slightly mad—but he is first and foremost my benefactor's privilege." He leaned back, fingers steepled. "When a man funds another's more... esoteric research for decades, certain confidences are shared. Particularly when that research suddenly bears fruit in the form of visitors who shouldn't exist."
His gaze sharpened, the scholar overtaking the lord. "A world outside our own. Other stars with other peoples. Marwyn speaks of it as fact but words are one thing." He gestured at Luke. "How can you prove such a thing? How can anyone prove the impossible?"
Malora drifted to the table, Ghost and Amidala trailing behind her like oversized puppies. She settled into her chair with boneless grace, still running her fingers through Ghost's fur as he lay beside her.
Luke recognized opportunity when it presented itself. He leaned forward, matching Leyton's intensity. "I can prove it, Lord Leyton. More than Marwyn could ever tell you, more than you've dreamed." He paused, letting the promise hang. "But first, you tell us the true reason we're being called to Highgarden."
Jon's brow furrowed in confusion, but he held his tongue. Luke felt a spark of pride—the boy was learning patience, when to speak and when to listen.
Leyton's laugh filled the room, genuine this time. "Oh, you are clever. Very well." He raised his hand, and servants appeared as if summoned from air, bearing platters of roasted capon, fresh bread, and wine that smelled of summer peaches. The lord said nothing as they arranged the feast, waiting until the last servant closed the door behind them.
He lifted his goblet, took a deliberate sip, and set it down with a soft click. "It's not simply Olenna who wants Jon in Highgarden."
Jon straightened, confusion clear on his face but maintaining his silence.
"Lord Renly Baratheon has taken a particular interest in this meeting," Leyton continued. "Though I suspect his reasons differ greatly from Lady Olenna's."
"I don't understand," Jon said finally. "Why would the King's brother—"
"Care about a bastard from the North?" Leyton's smile held secrets. "Because Renly plans to reveal something. Something even I'm not supposed to know, though walls have ears and the Mad Maid's whispers travel far."
Malora's voice drifted across the table, sing-song and distant. "The stag's horns are borrowed gold, and borrowed gold breeds only borrowed gold. The lion roars in the stag's own den, but only true princes may claim what false princes pretend. Ice and fire, fire and ice, the dragon stirs beneath wolf's dice. When bastards rise and trueborn fall, the one who was promised shall answer the call."
The room fell silent. Luke felt the Force swirl around Malora, not quite touching her but acknowledging her, like recognizing a distant cousin.
Leyton watched his daughter with fond exasperation. "My daughter speaks in riddles, but her meaning is clear enough to those who listen." He turned to Jon, studying him with renewed interest. "Lord Renly will reveal that Robert's children are bastards."
Jon's goblet hit the table hard enough to slosh wine across the wood. "What?"
"All three. Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen. Not a drop of Baratheon blood in them." Leyton's smile was sharp as a blade. "Why Renly wishes to reveal this now, in this manner, remains a mystery to me. But he and Olenna believe only Lord Stark can prevent Robert from tearing the realm apart when he learns the truth. And you, Jon Snow, represent Lord Stark's interests in the south."
"That's..." Jon's voice cracked. "If the Queen has been unfaithful, if the children aren't Robert's..."
"Civil war," Luke said quietly. He'd seen enough governments fall to recognize the pattern. "The succession becomes contested. Every great house will press their own claim or support another's."
"Precisely." Leyton refilled his goblet. "Olenna thinks she can manage this revelation, use it to her advantage. She wants to gauge Lord Stark's position through you, Jon. This is essentially a formality—the first time Lord Stark has allowed family to venture south in years. They mean to take full advantage."
"But if they're bastards," Jon pressed, his face pale, "who fathered them?"
Leyton's expression answered before his words. "Who else has golden hair and green eyes? Who else would the Queen trust absolutely?"
"Jaime Lannister," Jon breathed. "Her own brother."
"Indeed." Leyton turned to Luke. "I can almost guarantee Jon won't be harmed. This is political theater, not a trap. Olenna needs the North's stability, and Renly... well, Renly needs allies for whatever game he's playing."
Luke absorbed this, feeling the Force currents shift and eddy around them. The game of thrones was accelerating, pieces moving faster than expected. But his bargain with Leyton remained.
He pulled off his gloves with deliberate slowness. Leyton leaned forward, then jerked back with a gasp as Luke revealed the mechanical hand beneath. Servos whispered as Luke flexed the metal fingers, watching Leyton's eyes go wide as saucers.
"It's true…" Leyton whispered.
Malora clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, how wonderful! The stars gave you a new hand when the old one went away."
Luke reached beneath his cloak and withdrew his lightsaber. Leyton actually took a step backward as the blade ignited with its distinctive snap-hiss, green light flooding the room. The lord's face went pale, then flushed with excitement.
"It's pretty," Malora said dreamily. "Though I prefer the yellow ones. They sing sweeter songs."
Luke's blade died instantly. "You've seen a lightsaber before?"
Malora smiled, the expression both innocent and knowing. "I see many things. Past things, future things, things that might be and things that must never be." She tilted her head. "Your father had a blue one once. Then it was red. Colors change when hearts change."
Luke's throat tightened. She couldn't possibly know about Anakin, yet... He searched her face, finding only that serene, distant expression. The Force whispered around her but wouldn't quite touch her, like oil and water occupying the same space.
"That's all you'll get from her," Leyton said softly, still staring at where the lightsaber had been. "My daughter sees true, but speaks in puzzles." He sank into his chair, looking older and younger simultaneously. "A blade of light. A hand of metal. Marwyn spoke true. There are worlds beyond our world."
"Many worlds," Luke corrected, returning the weapon to his belt. "But I'm here for a reason. The Long Night isn't just history, it's returning. The Others gather their strength beyond the Wall."
Leyton nodded slowly. "I know. The glass candles burn again. Dragons stir in the east. Magic seeps back into the world like water through a broken dam." He looked at Jon. "You must make them believe at Highgarden. The Reach's strength will be needed."
"They won't listen," Jon said forcefully. "Southern lords think the Others are nursery tales. They care more about their games of power than—"
"Then make them care." Leyton's smile was sharp. "You have advantages they don't expect. Use them."
Jon blinked, understanding dawning on his face as he looks at Luke. "You want me to reveal..."
"I want you to survive what's coming," Leyton corrected. "All of Westeros needs to survive. If that means shattering a few assumptions about what's possible, so be it."
Luke studied the old lord. "When did you make the connection?"
Leyton's gaze shifted to Jon, lingering on his face. "When I truly looked at him. The North remembers, Master Luke. And some of us in the south remember too. Lyanna Stark had a particular beauty—stark, if you'll forgive the pun."
Jon's jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
"What's your goal here, Lord Leyton?" Luke asked directly.
"To see where it all ends." Leyton's expression grew distant. "I've spent fifty years in that tower, studying, watching, waiting. Now the board is set, the pieces are moving, and winter comes regardless of who sits the Iron Throne." His gaze found Jon again, weighted with meaning. "I want to help, wherever I can. However I can."
"By sending us into a potential trap?"
"By sending you where you need to be." Leyton lifted his goblet in a mock toast. "Olenna Tyrell is many things, but she's not stupid. She'll recognize your… talents Jon Snow. And when she does, she'll realize the game has changed beyond her careful calculations."
Luke felt the truth in Leyton's words through the Force. The old lord meant them no harm, indeed, he seemed genuinely invested in their success.
Leyton leaned forward eagerly. "Now, how exactly did you end up here Master Luke? Marwyn has theories about tears in reality, about places where the walls between worlds grow thin. But you would know better than our speculation."
Luke settled back, organizing his thoughts. "I was pursuing an artifact through uncharted space…."