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Chapter Text

Kylo

The sky above his grandfather’s castle was filled with dragons. 

     Kylo Ren, Supreme Leader of the Galaxy, watched, unbelieving, the slow drift of enormous wings.  There were three of them, each big enough to crush an AT-AT or to spear the transport ship in the clearing behind him with their claws. The transmission he’d received (if that’s what it had been) had said for him to come alone, but he’d brought his Knights—a nudge from the Force—and it seemed he’d been right to do so.  Beneath the dragons, beneath the castle, the light of the sunrise shone redly on endless rows of spears.  An army had come to Mustafar and had taken, unchallenged, the ancient keep.

          “…bad feeling about this,” hissed someone behind him.  Hataska Ren, probably, with that sibilant voice.  When not crushing hapless aliens with his mind, the albino had to rest in a special tank.  He always sounded like he was underwater, perhaps communing with the Oracle of nearby Webbish Bog.  Kylo had spoken to that creature once, a mere half mile from where he stood in this copse of ironwoods.  Why hadn’t the Oracle seen this coming?  An army—with dragons!—invading Sith lands?

          Where did they come from? Kylo wondered.  He kept tabs on Mustafar. There’d been nothing to indicate an invasion.  Until the night before with its strange red dream he’d been sure that Vader’s castle had been as he’d left it: shadowed and silent, brooding over the lava fields, a place where the Dark Side sat in contemplation of itself. 

          He chewed on his lip as he lowered his binocs.  No transmission.  No warning of ships entering atmo.  Just a dream—and the insidious tug of the Force.  A pull he’d felt only once before.  But this wasn’t that.  There was no warm-eyed girl at the end of this tether, pulling slowly as if to sound a great bell.  But there was something. Under his quilted doublet, his flesh tingled as the hairs rose on his arms.  The majestic sweep of leathern wings slicing the cloud cover, the slow swish of a tail and the sudden bloom of casually blown flame…There had to be a reason for his dark red dream. Surely he hadn’t been called here simply to be killed?

          Not that the mysterious army could do it.  They were sleek and deadly looking—but primitive.  No blasters, no ships, no tech of any kind.  He had only to hail the Supremacy and blast them all to hell.  His Knights could push the lot of them off a precipice.  He could do it himself, alone. Probably.

     No.  The only uncertainty were the beasts. He’d thought dragons were a myth.  Where had these come from?

     “Perhaps they’re like Purrgil.”  Hataska Ren said.  Somehow, he got a lot of reading done in that tank. 

     “Perhaps,” Kylo muttered.  That could explain it.  Purrgil could be ridden through space itself.  Maybe that explained why no fleet had been recorded—but it was hard to imagine men who fought with spears would know anything about interspace travel.

     Also, there was the dream.

     Come alone, the fire had said, the eyes at its center the color of blood.

     Frustrated, Kylo unhooked his saber and flicked the ignition with one gauntleted hand.  The familiar crackling of the cross-guard blade never failed to reassure him.  They were one: the blade and he.  Its fire was his nature: changeable and furious.  Yet in a galaxy full of liars it was honest as well.  She had told him he hid behind a mask, but he’d always been there in the open.

     One day it will pierce her heart, he thought, and tried not to feel the twinge of pain that followed.  What he felt for Rey, the girl with warm eyes, had its own troubling duality.

     He buried the thought of her away and strode to the edge of the ironwoods.  Rey he couldn’t figure out—but he knew what to do with an enemy army.

###

The plain confronted him, vast and smoking, the castle stabbing upward from the red-seamed fields.  A gentle drift of ash coated Kylo’s hair as he advanced—alone as promised—across the desolation.  Other than the ash, nothing moved.  The great army might have been made of stone.  He heard nothing but the soft, gritting sound of his tracks and, distantly, the deep rumble of hidden explosions.  Mustafar had gentled a little since Vader, the plates beneath the castle settling in something like truce, but magma still bubbled in rills and streams and wept down the splash way of the former refinery.  A bubbling lake ringed the keep in a kind of moat—not as grand as the flowing lakes from the days of the Republic, but effective.  Except for one graceful obsidian bridge you couldn’t hope to get inside from the ground.

     They got in up top.  Landed one of those…things.  Had someone go down to let the army across.  Surely that was the only logical conclusion, yet it didn’t feel completely right.  There had to be close to ten thousand men out there.  Only a fraction could have travelled on those beasts at one time.

     By the time he stopped a safe distance from the invaders his pulse was up, and grey sweat streaked his face.  He pretended interest in the army, but his real focus soared miles overhead.  With the Force in him he could sense the circling dragons and kept alert for any indication that they might descend.  He had a commlink.  Could call the Knights if needed, but he wasn’t sure what to expect from legends with wings.  Legends, as he knew only too well, never worked out exactly the way you expected.

     For an instant he flashed on his master’s face.  Not Snoke, who he’d killed, but the one who’d killed himself.  Sacrificed—he was sure that’s how it had been spun in the bolt holes and shanties where the Resistance still cowered.  Whatever you called Skywalker’s last act, the very thought of the man made Kylo want to kill something.  That was good. Anger was passion.  Passion was strength—and he was nothing if not strong.

     He stood in the ash, his lightsaber blazing, and screamed:

     “LET THE MASTER OF THIS RABBLE SHOW HIMSELF!”

     For a moment there was no response.  A dry wind howled across the plain.  The bristling field of spears before him yielded nothing.

     Then, a tramp of feet.  A flash of red.

     The warriors parted ranks as neatly as any Galactic battalion and a figure in crimson stepped to the fore.  A woman, Kylo saw, her dress like flame, a great ruby sparking in the hollow of her throat.  Her hair was red too, and, when she came closer, her eyes.  A false red, overbright, but sinister.  Maybe she was some leftover Night Sister.  That sort of magic might explain a lot.

     Sensing no change in the circling dragons, he lowered his saber to his side.

     “You lead these men?” he asked.

     The woman halted, her bright skirts fluttering in the wind.  She folded her hands into the belled sleeves of her gown and regarded him with—could it be amusement? 

     “I lead no one,” she said.  “I follow.”

     Oh great, Kylo thought.  A religious fanatic.  Several cults had reared their head since Vader left Mustafar.  Some had tried to “restore” the planet.  All of them had been insane.  Praying to the Sith.  Praying to the Oracle.  None knowing or caring about the Force.  Thinking some Darth or other would grant them eternal life.

     “Let me guess,” Kylo said.  “You follow a ghost.  Is it Vader?  Maybe Plageius the Wise?”  He raised his blade again.  “You’re trespassing in my castle.  You have exactly five seconds to explain.”

     The blade hissed as he leveled it at her chest, but her small, amused smile only grew.

     “They did die once,” she said.  “But death is no bar to the Lord of Light. I follow one who is reborn.  We’ve been looking for you, Kylo Ren.”

     It didn’t surprise him that this red woman knew his name.  He was known throughout the galaxy now.  What did surprise him was the strange fission that crept through his body, the way the Force thrummed as she pronounced the words. 

     “Who is looking for me?” he said. 

     The red woman looked up at the sky.

     Too late Kylo realized the dark shape diving towards him.  The dragons—one of them—had changed course.  It dove now, quicker than one would have thought.  The red woman retreated towards the stony army.  None moved as the great shadow spread across them.  They were used to this, he realized.  Unphased.  It was for him to retreat in the face of the roaring hurricane, the wind kicking up as the beast’s great bulk hurtled earthwards.  He cursed, his boots scuffing on the caked volcanic soil as he eased into a fighting stance and summoned the Force.

      We’ll see if you are worthy, the woman murmured—and he heard her in his head as if she stood beside him.  A Force user, then—but it wasn’t the Force he sensed in her.  Just some strange and looming darkness like the dragon’s shadow.

     The dragon—reddish black, its wingspan wider than a TIE—drew up short of the invaders’ heads.  Its great wings beat with astonishing fluidity as it hovered above them, its jaws opening around flame.  Kylo, raised on his father’s outlandish fairy tales, knew what was about to happen and leaned defiantly into the blast.  The wingbeats buffeted him, heels drawing furrows in the earth as the force of the wind pushed him steadily backwards.  The smell of sulfur intensified.  Ammonia from the planet.  Reptile stench from the beast.  His eyes stung, but he stretched his hand before him—and let the Force absorb the first explosive gout of flame.

     Fuck, fuck, fuck! The heat was beyond description.  He didn’t know if he quailed in terror or awe.  It was power driving at him.  Pure power.  The sort of annihilating force that men like Palpatine had killed for.  I would kill for it, he thought.  I would kill just for this moment.  Just to stand here and repel the excruciating light.

     The beast stopped, still hovering, shrieking in frustration—then offered another salvo ten times greater than before.  Kylo shrieked too, his voice drowned by its roaring, every muscle of his body straining against the fire.  He pushed the Force away from him in a great, convex shield that the flame flashed against in cruel sunflower explosions.  Mingled with Mustafar’s poisoned light it was red, red, red like the eyes in his dream.

     Kriff fuck I can’t hold it much longer, he thought.

     The flame jetted; the earth blackened—but the Force dispersed it.  Even when the earth melted and flowed in sluggish rivers.  Even when the heat curtain hid the army like a veil.  The beast raged and Kylo Ren raged back at it, defiant even as his body bled salt like a wound.

     No, he thought.  No. I don’t die this way.  I don’t die this way.  Only she can kill me…

     Gold-brown eyes flashed suddenly in his mind.  A sudden, vague push he hadn’t felt in months.

     It scared him.  Gods it scared him even more than the dragon.

     He screamed.

     With a surge, the Force exploded.

     The dragon spun upwards with a cry like pain.  For the first time, the invading army moved.  The shield bearers in front stumbled, some scrambling up singed where their fingerless gloves had touched the earth.  The ranks surged, everyone rattling and backing away, spears jostling at the center as the dragon screamed by above them.  Kylo heard shouts of fear and amazement.  No one had beaten their weapon before.  The plane cleared before him, leaving him in a circle—a melting crater of cooling magma that, even now melted the soles of his boots.  His Force-shield had kept the patch of ground cool enough while it lasted, but now that it was gone, the heat spread. He moved back to safer ground, chased by the smell of melting rubber.

     The whole time, the red woman stood where she’d met him. Unscorched—untouched, by all that had occurred.

     What the hell is going on? Kylo wondered—but now the dragon banked again.  Returning for more?

     He readied himself—but there was no aggression this time.  The dragon drifted, almost lazy.  To Kylo’s amazement he caught a flash of hair and clothing.  Someone was up there.  Someone was riding the thing.

     Someone who guided the beast to land like a leathern spacecraft on the tortured ground.

     Silence now, the earth settling.  Rumbles from beneath the planet.  A deep bass thud as the dragon touched down.  Kylo squinted through fumes and vents of steam and caught a flash of—could it be silver? —hair.

     The smoke cleared leaving ash flakes to drift on the wind.  It was a woman—a small woman—sliding down from the scaly back.  She moved unhurriedly, pausing to pat the beast, to whisper in some language he had never heard.  The dragon rumbled like a great, contented cat, and raised a red-veined wing so she could pass beneath it.

     Kylo stared, furious and fascinated, as she strode towards him with the assured steps of a dignitary.  Clad in dark leather from throat to heel she showed no sign that she felt the heat.  A vague smudge of ash flecked her forehead.  Her lovely hair swayed in pristine coils.  Kylo watched it, waited for it to burn, with a terrible mixture of anxiety and longing.  Something was clicking into place. Something shifting from underneath him.  The Force whispered around him, but he was not in control—and the realization left him giddy and, not unpleasantly, unsettled.

     The woman paused an arm’s length away from him.  Her eyes ran down the cross-guard saber and then to his face.  She was younger even than him, he saw.  No older than Rey.  But more beautiful. 

     Her eyes were the blood-drenched color of rubies.  The light of his saber sparkled in their depths.

     “Who—” he began.  He’d gone breathless, his mouth dry.  The word drifted from his mouth in a puff of ash.

     “My name is Daenerys Targaryen.”  The woman folded her hands.  “And you, Ser Kylo, are the Prince promised me.”

Chapter Text

Rey

From the top of the tower she could see the grasslands stretching on before her like a gray-green sea.  Beyond that, the westering sky was disrupted by rock formations that left strange silhouettes against the dimming sky. This planet, Lothal, was one of the odder places she’d been to: grass seas and canyons and bare white cities.  Monotonous as a desert, in its own way, but teeming with unexpected life.  Round-headed Loth-cats scampered through the settlements (the few she’d visited before the Resistance retreated to this forgotten outpost), and bounded through the grasses, perching on the boulders that made bulbous islands among the sward.  Sometimes the cats stirred up huge dragonflies who took off buzzing like winged motors, or sent small rodents hopping in terror as they searched for a tasty evening snack.

     What fascinated Rey, though, were the wolves—the brawny Loth-wolves, twice as big as their common kin.

     “Dank ferret!” A clatter of metal sounded behind her as Rose Tico continued to beat up a transmitter.  This tower had been some rebel’s bolt-hole, once, and was full of old parts and ancient technology.  Rose—Finn scowling over her shoulder—had an idea she might solve the Resistance’s most-pressing problem.  The First Order had—as Rose put it— “jammed the whole galaxy!”, making it impossible for the scattered remnants of the rebellion to communicate.  The transmitter, though, predated the Empire, and Rose hoped it might be made to cut through the disruption.  It was possible they might access some old, dead channel, even for a moment, and call for help.   Why else would the Force led have led them here, if not to provide some clue?  Some hope?

     “I need that thing,” Rose said behind her.

     “Thing?  I’ve got a hundred things!” Finn said.  More clattering.  Something bumped Rey’s ankle and she turned to find an empty Stormtrooper’s helmet glaring up at her.  No doubt it had come from the odd collection they’d found once they’d pried open the tower door.  Finn hypothesized the shelf they’d sat on was some warrior’s trophy case—one helmet for every Imperial scum the man had killed.  Rose, noting each helmet was different—Stormtrooper, Dark trooper, TIE Pilot, Speeder—said it looked more like a kid’s collection: evil paraphernalia instead of insects in jars.  She and Finn had bickered about it—gently—but on one point everyone agreed: the Force had meant them to find this tower.  The Force wanted the Resistance on Lothal.

     Me in particular, Rey thought, staring at the grass, waiting for nightfall.  It would happen any minute now.  The shift in the planet.  The time of the wolves. 

     Wind pulled through the long grass stocks, deliciously cool after the long, hot day.  Rey braced herself on the rail of the watchtower and held back the urge to reach out with her mind.  She’d done so instinctively the first time she’d seen them—those long shapes surfacing from the grass, and had felt them shy away, cautious.  She’d have to wait for them to come to her.

     Just then, what came was the sound of feet, clinking up the ladder on the other side of the tower.  A moment later, Poe Dameron appeared, the wind rippling back his increasingly shaggy hair.  Out of his flight suit he looked even more dashing (she’d heard Leia compare him to Han when he was safely out of hearing) and for a moment he looked every inch a hero as the vanishing sunlight painted patterns on his face.

     “Oh, hi Rey,” he said.  So much for the hero.  His voice was ragged, much in need of sleep.  Back in the cave where the Resistance had retreated, he was spending most of his time as Rose was, monitoring frequencies for a weakness, running scenarios for the next phase of a revolution that seemed to have stalled in its tracks.  Every evening, he showed up at the tower to say goodnight or drink the vanishing dregs of that week’s beer—usually with Finn.  Usually warm.  With their waning tech used to power the transmitters there wasn’t enough left over for the cooling units. 

     “They in there?” he asked, nodding to the tower door as if he couldn’t clearly see within.  He always seemed a bit tongue tied around Rey, or else put off by Finn’s sudden acquisition of a girlfriend.  Rey couldn’t decide which it was.  Leia said Poe had been acting odd since Crait.  “He’s either miffed to have lost something,” the general had said, “or uneasy with something he’s found.”  That with a pointed look to Rey.  It was true, Rey thought, that Poe seemed interested in her.  But then, he seemed interested in a great many people.  He was known about camp for his “bedroom eyes.” 

     “Still no luck?” Rey asked.

     “Nope,” Poe said.  “They really jammed us good.  You gotta hand it to Kylo Ren—he’s a lot more tech savvy than Snoke.  Oh hey--” he said as Rey shuddered.  “I’m sorry.  I forgot about that whole…”  He trailed off.

     “It’s okay,” Rey smiled.  But for a moment, red light a flashed before her.  She remembered the ozone smell of the electrified halberds as Snoke’s guards surrounded her and Ben.  Or Kylo Ren, she ought to say.  Supreme Leader of the First Order.  Dark Lord of the galaxy. He was now more powerful than Vader.  There wasn’t a world the Order didn’t somehow control. But for just a few moments, as he’d fought at her side, she’d thought Ben Solo had returned. 

     “No luck in here, either, huh?” Poe asked, nodding at Finn and Rose bent intently over the transmitter. The device emitted a burst of static before lapsing into churlish silence.

     “Something will happen,” Rey said.  “The Force brought us here for a reason.”

     “It’s sure taking its time,” Poe said.

     A howl unfurled across the grasslands.

     Rey shot to attention.  There it was.  In the distance: a flash of white running before the moon.  The rest of the world dropped away as she vaulted the railing in one smooth, soundless leap.  Poe’s exclamation was lost above her as she landed in a catlike crouch.  Then she was speeding through the grass, swift and quiet at the summer wind.

     The wolves rose in the near distance, ridged backs glimmering among the sheaves.  A feeling came from them, a strange belonging.  They belonged to each other, but also to Lothal.  Something about them felt elemental, as if they were as vital to the planet as the wind or the moon.  The Force brightened with their coming.  They called to her.  Pulled.

     She stopped a polite way off.

     Here I am.  She sent the thought, felt the Force take it and present it to them like a gift.  From their center—there were five of them—emerged one shape larger than the rest.  It was white—and a smaller whiteness accompanied it.  At first Rey thought it was a cub.  Then she saw it was a different breed of wolf, its muzzle more angular, unmarked by the rills that typified the others.  A normal loth wolf towered over most men; this one was only a little over man-size.  An adult, too.  It had seen battle.  Part of its right ear was gone, healed over from some grievous wound.  Rey sensed a tentativeness about it—not fear of pain.  Apprehension.  About her.

     She stood still and tried to radiate friendliness as the white Loth wolf moved towards her with unblinking yellow eyes.  Its regard was something more than human, reminding her that these beings were creatures of the Force.  It was the smaller wolf, trailing it, that felt human, though it peered around its elder (if that’s what it was) with deep red eyes. 

     Strange, Rey thought.  Red was Kylo’s color.  This exact red, like fresh blood.  It always made her think of him.  Of Snoke’s throne room.  Of the salt-flats of Crait. That was the last time she had seen him, bowed over on the floor of the deserted command center.  He’d won.  Chased them all away, and yet his eyes, when they met hers through their bond had been lost.  She’d closed the connection between them then.  Almost two years gone.

     She shut the memory away.

     “I’m Rey,” she said softly to the approaching wolf. 

     The huge head bent near her, close enough to feel its breath.  For a wild animal it smelled unexpectedly pleasant: sweet grass, rich earth, sharp, musty fur.

     The huge yellow eyes bored into her, reading something only it could see.  Then the great head swiveled towards its companion.  A deep, earthy rumble trembled the dusk.

     Rey.

     Rey wasn’t sure if she heard it with her ears or if the beast had spoken in her mind. 

     Force, she thought.  Is it introducing me?  The smaller, red-eyed wolf looked up at her as if confirming the name.

     Rey, the Loth wolf said again.  Then, turning to her: Snow.

     In that instant, three extraordinary things happen.  The first was that she saw the red-eyed wolf.  Not its exterior, which remained the same—slightly sad and anxious with its poor, torn ear.  No.  She saw inside of it.  Saw through it, down into its being.  What she felt made her gasp with shock and amazement.  There were two beings inside its body.  One wolf.  One man.

     Snow, the Loth wolf said again. Rey found herself reaching for the smaller wolf.  It bowed its head, its strange red eyes trained on her—

     But before she could touch it, the second shock occurred.

     No. I don’t die this way.  Only she can kill me…

     Rey recoiled as a familiar presence leapt into her mind.  His heart was pounding, boots melting beneath him as a torrent of fire battered against the Force.

     Ben! Instinct eclipsed reason.  Their bond was open and she had no time.  She pushed outward with a part of herself, sent it hurtling towards the beacon of his panic.

     The next instant the bond collapsed.  She sat down hard amongst the grasses.  Before her, the Loth wolves and their smaller companion

     (Snow)

had vanished as if they’d never been.  Except they had.  The wolves.  The man.

     A startled scream came from the watchtower. 

     Now what?  Already she was running.  A frenzied static crackled as she neared the rusted metal ladder.  With so much confusion in the Force, so many shocks sustained in a handful of minutes, her body felt leaden as she hoisted herself upwards and skidded to a halt before the open door.

     Within, the transmitter buzzed. A zap of static electricity stung her hand.  Rose, Finn, and Poe stood over the transmitter, mouths open, faces drained of blood.  A voice was coming from the device, spewing a language that tortured the ears.  A feeling of horror, iron cold, dropped to the pit of Rey’s stomach.

     “Is that Sith?” she asked.  The air sparked at the word.  Rose looked up, tears running down her cheeks.  She nodded, unable to articulate, shrinking close against Finn, who squeezed her, and trembled.

     It was up to Poe to deliver the final blow.  He’d been with the Resistance since the beginning, after all.  Before Leia had become Rey’s Master, she’d been his.  He knew things of the general—of her past—that Rey had barely grasped.

     “It’s Sith, all right,” he said now.  “One particular Sith—or his ghost.”

     “Ghost?” Rey’s heart was in her throat.  “Not Snoke?  It can’t be!  I saw him die.”

     Poe laughed.  A rusty sound.  An old piece of siding about to shred.

     “Not Snoke,” he said.  “It’s worse than that.  I’m pretty sure that’s Emperor Palpatine.”

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The queen had flown back to the palace, leaving Tyrion to see the new suitor across the bridge.  Daenerys didn’t know that’s what he was, but Tyrion had learned to recognize a certain look.  No man with two eyes and a functioning cock, could behold Daenerys Targaryen and not want her.  Her beauty cast the same spell on subjects, slavers, and heroes—and certainly the young man who now stalked towards Tyrion.  Tall and imposing, his Knights following like Silent Sisters, he may have ruled worlds, but his heart had just sold itself like a bed slave.

     Tyrion supposed he ought to be grateful.  Mostly he felt bitter and ill-at-ease. 

     “Ser Kylo of Ren,” he greeted cheerfully as the young man slowed long enough to stare.  By the gods, why were all Daenerys’s men so tall?  And brooding, and dark, and comely besides?  Ser Kylo was less comely than the last, but the long scar on his cheek made him interesting.  He reminded Tyrion of his own scars and, oddly enough, of Jon Snow.  The King Beyond the Wall had been scarred by a wildling skin changer, thus sparing him the curse of perfect beauty.  No one had seen that face in ten years, but Tyrion Lannister thought about him daily.

     “Call me Supreme Leader,” Ser Kylo grated.  The light of his astonishing sword glowed hellfire in his eyes.  The blade was made of something even stranger than Valyrian steel.  Despite that, Tyrion sensed the Knight was using it as a shield.  Well, why not?  It wasn’t everyday a dragon tried to roast you while its mother stole your holdfast by way of hello. 

      “You can call me Tyrion or ‘you, dwarf,’” Tyrion said.  “Everyone does, no matter how many kingdoms I save.  Follow me, my lord.  We can take the magic lift.  Perhaps you can explain to me how it works.”

     “You’ve never used a pneumatic lift before?” Ser Kylo sounded shocked to the molten soles of his shoes.

     Tyrion shrugged.  “Until a week ago, I didn’t know there were things called ‘planets.’  Imagine my acute surprise when I learned I was even smaller than I’d thought.”

     Ser Kylo’s dark and smoldering gaze flickered like a pond disturbed by a breeze.

     Oh good, Tyrion thought.  He can almost laugh.  His companions could manage it, anyway.  A hissing mirth came from behind.

      It’s the Bloody Mummers all over again, Tyrion thought.

      He turned and waddled towards the lift. 

     The priestess, Kinvara, waited by the doors as if the contraption were of no more account than a spoon.  Tyrion felt strangely comforted by her presence.  She was the only thing stranger than these Knights of Ren. Indeed, as the doors of the lift swicked shut with the eerie smoothness of a shadowbinder’s spell, he felt the Knights make a careful pocket around her, giving her as respectful a distance as they did their young lord.  They could feel it too: not just the heat of the woman, curling through her scarlet gown like a whore’s perfume, but the power of her, menacing and silent as some creature you could sense but not yet see.  It was the power of fire and Asshai.  The power to resurrect the dead. 

     The lift proceeded skyward in tense silence.  At the top the doors opened onto a wide arras.  A little ball of chrome-black metal greeted them, its swiveling head chirping what Tyrion had come to recognize as “hello.”  His first day in the castle, disoriented and afraid, he thought he’d died and gone to roast in the Seven Hells.  The chirping spheres and metal men who roamed the hallways seemed a small but horrifying procession of the damned. Now, though, he only muttered his own hello and let the thing—BB-39—precede him across the arras. He just managed to stay between the ball and Ser Kylo, the sulfurous wind buoying his step as he moved towards the shelter of another pair of doors.  Drogon, perched on the far edge of the arras, settling his wings against the foul air as cheerfully as a roosting hen, screamed his own greeting, then craned his serpentine neck to regard the two other dragons who patrolled the sky.  Not poor Viserion or Rhagael. These were new beasts.  Younger.  A green and a brown.  They’d taken to Tyrion as the others had—which was one of the slender reasons he was still alive.

     I can’t believe I’m less afraid of dragons than droids, Tyrion thought as BB-39’s bubbly chirping came again.  He was still getting used to the musical, droid language, and sometimes the piercing nature of their sounds gave him a start.  It also didn’t help that he barely overtopped them.  He’d collided with this very creature on more than one occasion.  Just now, the little ball seemed impatient to leave the arras—as anxious as Tyrion to rejoin his queen.  Or maybe it was merely perturbed by Ser Kylo, whose long step and tall form loomed persistently above them.    

     “Through here.”  Tyrion nodded towards the approaching doors before he remembered that Ser Kylo had made the castle his seat.  Luckily, Ser Kylo had turned to regard the dragons.  He wasn’t half as impressed as Tyrion would have liked.  What a terrible streak of luck to bring dragons into a world filled with even larger monsters.  The wondrous library Tyrion had found in the depths of the castle, filled with walking, talking images you could hold in your hand, had apprised him of a realm filled with creatures and contraptions so extraordinary, the Maesters of Oldtown would have pissed in their venerable robes.

     King Bran was right about all of it, Tyrion thought. Another world—worlds!—converging with our own.  He didn’t know whether to be grateful or terrified.  On one hand, confirmation of Bran’s visions meant he wasn’t insane. On the other hand—

     Before him, pneumatic doors swicked open, allowing them into the vast chamber beyond the arras.  Four gleaming catwalks converged on an obsidian platform that thrust from a sea of lava hundreds of feet below.  It was some kind of receiving chamber, one designed to make the received extremely uncomfortable.  You couldn’t stand on the great platform and not consider falling—and the tall, triangular doors at the end of each walkway gave no clue what lay beyond.  The only window—a huge and intimidating oblong crowned with a triangular arch—looked out on the scarred surface of the planet like a warning of impending exile.  The place hummed, not only with hidden machines, but with strange sense of turmoil and menace.  The angry lava boiling in the depths below might have been blood coursing through a raging heart. 

     Even Kinvara and the Knights slowed as they entered the chamber.  Tyrion heard the uncomfortable rustling of their garments.  Only Ser Kylo seemed, if not relaxed, then prepared.  He extinguished his sword and regarded the chamber like a man returned home.  His gaze drifted to the wall opposite the great viewport where, Tyrion knew, a doorway matching its shape and size was concealed.  There was an even more perplexing chamber behind it, one Tyrion hoped never to visit again.  He was fairly sure the sense of menace pervading this chamber had seeped in from that other space.  From the gleaming glass tank where something awful had hung.  Something tortured, its pain living on in the shadows. Tyrion hadn’t felt such prickling dread since his night in the crypts of Winterfell.

     “You sense my grandfather,” Kylo Ren said.  Tyrion jumped like a startled maid.  The young Knight was looking down at him, his face awash in scarlet light.  Seven Hells, the boy was uncanny.  It was as if he’d read Tyrion’s mind.

     “I did,” Ser Kylo said—and before Tyrion knew what had happened, the young man reached towards him with a leather-clad hand.  His fingers clenched and something tore at Tyrion’s mind, prying open his thoughts like an awl might an oyster. The contents of his head were stripped and examined.  Everything he had experienced since his last talk with King Bran.

     “No!  Wait!”   He could barely choke the words out.  He found himself on his knees with a view of Ser Kylo’s boots.  The boy had been walking around on melted soles gone as flat as the batter of a morning cake.  It was almost funny, but Tyrion couldn’t laugh, could hardly breathe as his mind unraveled. Bronn and all of Cersei’s torturers together couldn’t have done a better job.

     “There is no need for this,” a voice said.  Kinvara.  Calm and mellifluous as ever.  Tyrion could sense her, a fuzzed vision of red, surrounded by Ser Kylo’s terrible Knights.  He could sense them too—whatever power their master wielded they had it too, to a lesser degree.  But Ser Kylo hardly needed their help.  All Tyrion Lannister was went spilling out of him like innards.

     “You must find the Lord of Ren.”  King Bran said, his face as white as the living weirwood of his throne.   “This force that steals upon us can only be defeated by uniting the chosen of both our worlds.”

     “My lord,” Tyrion wept. The boy was dying, dwindling right in front of him.  All their blood and toil, the suffering of the realm, seemed to be ending after ten short years.

     “It’s all right, Tyrion.”  Bran gave one of his rare smiles.  “Didn’t I tell you, I would make you atone for your crimes?  Win this battle and your debts are paid.  You will have the love you’ve always sought—and peace for a hundred years.  But you must go now.  Before the dark star rises.  Before the Three Eyed Raven bows before the storm.”

     Even as he spoke the throne was growing, the roots opening, raising the boy king on a crest of writhing branches.  A cold voice laughed as Bran vanished into the weirwood and the darkness gaped: a tear in the world—

     Abruptly, Ser Kylo withdrew, his hand clutched to his chest as if he’d burned it.  “You’re from another dimension entirely!” he exclaimed. “All of you!”  He turned a glare on Tyrion. “You loved her!”  he whispered.  “You loved her and you killed her…” He staggered as if he’d gone dizzy.

     Tyrion raised his head, nodding.  There was no doubt who Ser Kylo was talking about.

     “I did,” he said hoarsely.  The old shame gripped him. “But as you may have seen, there was good reason.”

     “I was taken.” A silvery voice echoed across the chamber.  Tyrion hadn’t heard Daenerys arrive.  She crossed to them over the fiery canyon, flanked by two maid servants in fluttering red.  Kinvara had provided an endless supply of these handmaidens, all more than capable of burning men to ash.  The Knights of Ren gave a collective sigh.  They recognized kindred when they saw them.

     “Taken?” Ser Kylo said.  He’d forgotten Tyrion now.  The Look was back in his eyes.  Daenerys had exchanged her riding clothes for a gown of deepest midnight silk, its neckline plunging to her navel in a way that, even now, stirred Tyrion’s blood.  He felt a bitter pang of desire, and an even more bitter spasm of shame.  Even here, on his knees, he could see where Jon had stabbed her.  A pale scar adorned the inner slope of one breast.

     “Taken,” she nodded.  “My mind overthrown.  Something came for me in our hour of victory.  It made me its plaything, for awhile, at the expense of my kingdom and my life.” She breezed past Tyrion, ignoring him, as the little man clambered to his feet.   Ser Kylo released a breath as she paused before him, his hands tightening at his sides. 

     If he uses his power on her, Tyrion decided, I’ll tear his throat out with my teeth. Some things may have changed—Daenerys back from the dead, Tyrion himself lost in a realm not fit for the Stranger—but his affections remained as constant and doomed as they’d been from the moment he first saw his queen. 

     She’s still my queen, he thought sadly, as Ser Kylo relaxed beneath her gaze.  She’d be the Supreme Leader’s queen as well, maybe queen of this galaxy.  And gods help me, Tyrion thought, I’ll make it happen.  Bran had told him to, of course, but, Tyrion owed her.

     A Lannister always pays his debts.

     He rose and forced a cheerful smile.

     “My lord and my lady,” he said, “if you’re done staring at each other, perhaps we might share some information—and wine?"

Chapter Text

Daenerys

She listened as Tyrion told it again, but her mind was away from her, in the fire.  Flames burned at her back in the great maw-like fireplace, and burned beneath her feet, fathoms below.  If she reached out with her mind (not that she would.  Tyrion was currently explaining the folly of such things) she would be able to feel the whole planet: the rivers of fire, threaded through it like veins.  More than that, she would feel its lifeforms, and not only those who had followed her through the door.  Mustafar was like her.  It should have been dead, but it raged and spit with unholy fire.

          Daenerys Targaryen shivered a moment before she took a sip of wine.  Tyrion had found the cellars, of course.  It was almost like old times.

          It was nothing like old times.

          She sat, still and straight on the lip of fireplace--a huge square of black marble that one of her younger dragons could have fit inside.  They had retired, she and Tyrion, Kinvara, and Ser Kylo, to the vast stateroom she had claimed as her own.  Ser Kylo had informed them it was his stateroom, and before that, reserved by his grandfather for when his Emperor came to visit.  A man named Palpatine who also should have died, but who had, instead, defied nature.  A man, Daenerys was coming to understand, whose dark magics had stretched from this galaxy into her own.

          “King Bran was the first to notice,” Tyrion was saying.  By now Daenerys knew the tale by heart.  Jon’s strange little brother, the Three Eyed Raven, had taken the throne after she herself had been killed.  He had been a good king, but mysterious, using his powers to examine both future and past, but, as Tyrion related, he had reached too far and brushed against something unforeseen.

          “He said he’d touched the hinges of the world,” said Tyrion.  “But I don’t think he meant to open them.”

          “He had a thousand eyes and one,” Kinvara murmured.  “But the shadow was staring back at him.”

          “Is the shadow what you call the dark side?” asked Ser Kylo.  His lordly calm was both impressive and unnerving.  He seemed to take the tale as a matter of fact—as confirmation of what he’d seen in Tyrion’s mind.

          How do I know that’s what he did? Dany wondered.  It was madness, but she thought it was truth, as well.  She was certain Ser Kylo could read any mind he chose—not like a scholar flipping pages, but a Maester divining entrails.  He had simply reached into Tyrion’s head and lifted the truth out raw and whole. No one can lie to him, she thought.  If only I’d had such magic.  Such force.

          Ser Kylo’s dark eyes flickered towards her.  She glanced away—had he heard her too?

          “I would wager that this dark side of yours resembles a great many things in our world,” said Tyrion, pouring his second glass of wine.  “This Palpatine, for instance seems a bit like our Night King—a creature who exists both in and out of time.”

          “So you think Palpatine entered your world through one of these hinges,” said Ser Kylo.

          “In the Land of Always Winter,” Tyrion nodded.  “But then he headed south.”

          For a moment, the two men looked at one another and Dany knew they too could see the fire.  The destruction, the bells, the screams and slaughter, the snow and ash mingling, inseparable.  Daenerys had left most of those memories behind her, in Valyria, where Drogon had borne her, across the Smoking Sea.  She had shed the fallen queen and arisen reborn, revived from the magic of Kinvara’s fires.  Still, if she allowed herself, she could feel it again, feel the rage that had overcome her atop the walls of King’s Landing. Could remember how something had spoken to her, telling her to be a dragon, to use her anger and her pain.

          After that she remembered only smoke--until the cold kiss of the knife.

          “And after he ‘went south?”” Ser Kylo said, “what became of your queen’s kingdom?”

          “It was a kingdom,” Tyrion said faintly.  “For awhile, before my lord Bran started to thin.  He started to speak of the overlapping of worlds and a dark star that would rise to crush the light.  He’d be gone longer and longer, wherever he went, and when he returned he’d say things strange even for him.  I began to realize that he wasn’t always Bran.  Sometimes he was this Other.  This…Palpatine.”

          “Hm.”  Ser Kylo examined the glass he hadn’t drunk from, then rose to standing, his long chin in his hand.  Daenerys found her eyes roving over him, drawn by some strange sense of familiarity.

          He’s all in black, like Jon, she decided—but the thought pained her and her hand flew to her breast.  The raised scar refused to heal despite the fact Kinvara had healed her from death.  She should have heled me from life, she thought. Healed away the memories from before.  It would have been better to have forgotten herself, to let Drogon carry her to oblivion. 

          When she looked up, Ser Kylo was watching her again.  Something brushed at her mind like a moth’s threadbare wing.  Angrily, she realized her thoughts had got away again.  Her mad thoughts that had led her to fire and ruin.  She felt it and she knew Ser Kylo felt it.  He could see through her like a crystal bowl.

          She gripped the lip of the fireplace and raised herself on unsteady legs.

          “This is our story,” she said impatiently.  “It has led us to you and you have passed our test.  You are the Prince Who Was Promised.  You carry the Red Blade of Heroes.  What must we do to win your help?”

          “How would I help?” Ser Kylo asked.  “The Emperor touched your world but he’s dead in mine.  Even if he returned, I am the Supreme Leader.  Every planet, every legion is under my command.  It seems that I have everything and you have nothing.  Why would I stop my war to fight in yours?”  His words were harsh, yet the voice itself was calm—more curious, Daenerys thought, than censorious.  Still, she felt a surge of helplessness.  An emotion she hadn’t felt since before she had died.

          “It is a prophecy,” she said.  “One that touches both our worlds.”

          “I don’t believe in prophecies,” said Ser Kylo.  He paused.  That dark gaze glided over her.  “Destinies, however,” he said, “are real.” 

          She heard Tyrion murmur uneasily as Ser Kylo approached her, tall and shadowed.  He paused a hand nearer than strictly respectful and his voice dropped low, meant only for her.

          “You feel it,” he whispered.  “I know you do.  How long has it been since you could sense the Force?”

          “The Force?” Daenerys whispered.

          “Tell them to go.” Ser Kylo indicated Kinvara and Tyrion.

          “All right.”  Did she answer with her voice or her mind?  “Leave us,” she told the others.  “Ser Kylo and I must talk.”

          “My lady.”  Tyrion waddled closer, then stopped himself, bowed, and slunk away.  Some distant part of Daenerys felt pity for him, though another still wondered why she’d let him live.  When he’d appeared out of thin air a week before, wild eyed and trembling at droids and shadowbinders alike, her instinct had been to summon the nearest dragon and burn him for the traitor he was.  Just as quickly the thought had faded.  The queen she had been might have burned him, but that felt so distant now. Often, she felt that her death and betrayal had happened to some other woman, in some other time. 

          On some other planet, she thought without wonder.  Very little seemed wondrous anymore.  She had died.  Now she lived.  The great wheel turned and would keep turning until some unfathomable god was satisfied.

          The doors to the stateroom boomed shut and she could hear Ser Kylo’s breath and the crackle of the fire.

          “Don’t be afraid,” Ser Kylo said.  He worked off one of his gloves and tucked it in his belt.  Very gently, as though she were a horse that might startle, he raised his bare hand beside her cheek. 

          “Is this your mind trick?’ Daenerys asked.  She felt no apprehension at the thought.

          “I have heard the dwarf’s story,” Ser Kylo said.  “But he is low in mind as well as stature.  He barely understands his own world, much less anything touching on mine.  A drunk and a liar.  A murderer.”

          “I’m a murderer,” Dany said.

          “Me too.” Ser Kylo nodded.  He placed his hand softly on her cheek.

          Daenerys made a tiny sound as her body arched into his touch.  She heard his breath catch, but her mind had whitened, memories and feelings speeding too fast within her.  Kylo Ren, she realized too late, could see more than just the recent past.  He saw all of her.  Was seeing all of her, her life flowing through him in a raging stream.  Her enslavements and marriages, her battles, her losses, her dragons and the child who had died.  She wanted to scream, or perhaps to weep with relief, that someone had seen the violent truth. In turn, she felt an urgent desire to receive a similar truth.

          Ser Kylo grunted as she seized his wrist and plunged herself into his mind. 

          She didn’t know what she was doing.  She had never had such power before.  Yet the Knight’s very presence seemed to amplify her, to give focus to the restless searching that had gripped her mind.

          She reached for him and saw fire and blood.  Chaos and magic.  Sorrow and loss.  She understood, in a flash, the thing called the Force, and how it conspired to bind them as one.

          Slowly the world came back to her.  She clutched Ser Kylo’s hands before the fire.  Their breathing struggled and flagged together as they came back to focus in one another’s eyes.

          “You loved him,” he said at last.  “The one who killed you.”

          “You love her,” she replied.  “The one you must kill.”

          “The Force wants something from us,” he said.  His hands, one gloved, one naked, gripped her—and heat and magic seethed in her blood.

          “What now?” she asked.

          “We find our destiny,” he was drawing her nearer.  He smelled of leather and ash.  Daenerys realized her heart was pounding, that she was tracing the scar on his face—so like Jon’s—with her eyes.

          “No, forget him,” Kylo said.  “That past is dead.  We’re alive.”

          She tried to smile, tried to nod, but she was all confusion.  She had felt nothing for so long and now she felt too much.

          A sudden low chirping by the door preceded the entrance of BB-39.  A Knight of Ren tripped in behind it, the double doors banging inwards like thunder at his shove.

          Ser Kylo whirled with a snarl.  “Jaedec,” he barked.  “What is it?”

          “Lord Kylo,” the Knight had a reedy voice, distorted by some sort of machine in his helmet.  Tyrion would have known what it was, but to Daenerys he sounded like an insect.  “Theresss been a transssssmisssssion,” the insect hissed.  “Coming in now.  A messsssage from oussstside.”

          “Who is it?” Ser Kylo demanded.

          Jaedec Ren shook his head as if unsure how to answer.  “The dead,” he said at last.  “My lord:  The dead ssssspeak.”

Chapter Text

Leia

“Turn it off.”  The general waved a hand and the blue light of the hologram stuttered out.  For a moment, no one in the makeshift command center moved, their faces frozen in awe and fear.  Commander D’Acy wept openly.  Young Lieutenant Connix steadied herself on the nearest droid—R2-D2, as it happened; Threepio cowered a little behind them repeating his usual mantra of doom.

          He might be right this time, Leia thought as the worried murmurs of the assembly filled the room.  In the absence of interstellar static, the horror made itself loud and clear.

          “This isn’t possible,” someone muttered.

          “Do we believe this?”

          The arguing began.

          Leia let it spiral for a moment.  Force knew her people needed to let off some steam.  She slumped down on a seat by the transmission console and let her gaze float about the room.  The Force had hinted something was coming.  She’d had bad dreams and worse anxiety since the Battle of Crait.  Then, in the last month, dread had settled in her stomach like the dark matter of some accursed star.  She saw that same dread on her friends’ faces.  Worse: she saw despondency.  Chewie leaned limply against the wall beside an anxious BB-8.  The little droid shook and jittered on his axis, emitting a series of heart-piercing beeps. Leia reminded herself not to underestimate droids.  In some ways they were more human—and more fragile—than men.  But it was the human faces that most concerned her.  Four in particular.  Rey and Rose and Finn and Poe, so young beneath the weak plasma lighting.

          Rey and Rose and Finn and Poe.  The new young leaders who’d be forced to clean up this mess.

          When did I get so old? Leia wondered.  So damn old and so alone?  When she looked at those four she felt it keenly: how her family, her loves, her deepest friendships were gone.  Lando had vanished in search of his daughter, taken by the First Order early in the war.  Luke and Han had sacrificed themselves to Kylo Ren—the dark and shadow-stricken Knight that Snoke had made of her son.  Ben himself had been her greatest loss. Her sweet, impulsive little boy.  If this transmission really was from Palpatine, she wondered if Ben had heard it yet.  He ruled the galaxy, after all. As much as Leia tried not to think about him, she had to consider his choices.  What he did next could mean the end of the Resistance and the death of the galaxy’s remaining Light.

          “All right,” she said, rising to her feet.  She had to push up on her cane—an irritating necessity.  Still, her reputation was stronger than her body and the room quieted immediately.  “Any guesses as to what we just heard?” she asked.  In typical Sith fashion, Palpatine had been gnomic.

          “It should be a joke,” Rose Tico said.  “But I was there when it came in.  It doesn’t feel jokey.”

          “Palpatine died though,” Poe Dameron said.  “Right?  I mean—Anakin Skywalker threw him down a reactor shaft.”  He paused.  “Then the shaft blew up along with the rest of the second Death Star.” A murmur of general agreement sounded—but it was muted and lacked conviction.

          “The odds that Emperor Palpatine survived the destruction of the second Death Star are ninety-seven-five-hundred-million-to-one.”  That was Threepio, butting in as usual, but this time no one interrupted him. “However,” the droid continued, “the way that transmission affected my translation matrix makes me fear we must at least consider the idea.  Emperor Palpatine could use the Force, and who knows what other terrible magic.  If anyone could return from death, the odds are just as good that it is him.”  Beside him, Artoo rocked back and forth, chirping in high-pitched agreement.  As endearing as it was, Leia shivered.  The two droids hardly ever agreed.

          “It feels true,” Finn muttered.  “I mean, didn’t anyone else’s hair stand on end?”

          “That voice,” D’Acy agreed.  “Speaking Sith.”

          “Rey,” Finn prompted.  “What do you think?”

          All eyes turned towards the young Jedi.  The legend in the making.  The last of her kind.

          Rey wore an inward-looking expression.  Leia realized she had yet to speak a word. 

          She looks like Luke just before he went to face our father.  Another chill raced down her spine.

          “Rey?” she prompted

          “I think Finn’s right.” The girl’s voice was quiet. “It feels real.  Also familiar.

          “Familiar to a Jedi, maybe,” Poe muttered.  His snark was getting worse each hour.  Leia reminded herself to make him take a nap.  It had been too long for all of them

          “The message threatens to bring two worlds together,” Leia said.  “To merge them into a single kingdom for Palpatine to rule.”  She paused.  “It really does sound like him—but what two worlds?  And what about the rest of it?”

          What about the heroes? she wanted to ask—but had a bad feeling she’d already figured it out.  The strange thing was, the message mentioned two sets of heroes.  One of light, one of darkness.  A pair for each realm.

          The chatter started up again.  Everyone suddenly had a theory.  D’Acy and Connix gave Leia worried looks as if they feared to admit they thought Palpatine’s message referred to her.

          Me and Ben, together? she wondered.  But no.  Palpatine dealt in youth.  Leia’s saber-wielding days has ended the same day as her Jedi training. 

          Rey?  The command center was getting loud.  This time she reached out with her mind. 

          Rey looked up instantly.  Yes, Master? A weary trepidation came to Leia through the Force.

          Can you meet me in my quarters?  I sense you have something to tell me?

          I do.  Be there in a moment.

          She turned, jostling Poe as she threaded her way past.  The pilot gave her only a cursory nod before turning his attention back to Finn.  Connix had hailed Rose Tico and, as Rose moved off, Poe moved in.  He clapped Finn amiably on the back and received the ex-Stormtrooper’s 100-watt smile in return.

          Ah, Leia thought. She’d been wondering at Poe’s strange moodiness.  Her money had been on Rey as the source. Wrong again, she thought. Like so many other things.  With a sigh, she gripped her cane and made her way from the room.

###

Most of the Tantive IV was blazing hot (and would be blazing cold if they had to spend the winter on Lothal) but Rose Tico had offered to jerry rig the cooling unit and Leia felt no guilt in accepting.  She couldn’t run the Resistance if she couldn’t think, and so her modest little chamber was refreshingly cool.  She paused a moment in the doorway shaking her head at the memory of her lavish rooms on Hosnian Prime.  She and Han had been so happy there.  Who’d have thought she end up stuck in a blockade runner?  Again?

          Oh cheer up, she chided herself, settling in to wait for Rey.  The girl came shortly: a soft tap on the door, a whisper of footsteps as she entered bearing two dainty cups of tea.

          “Civilized,” Leia commented.

          “With cookies!” Rey exclaimed, patting the bag slung over one shoulder.  She passed a cup to Leia, set her pack down, and rummaged.  She and Finn and Rose were always up for a supply run, and always returned with some local delicacy or other.  Now she unwrapped a packet of wafers that proved similar to the biscuits Leia had once enjoyed on Alderaan.  The tea was good too, dark and flavorful, laced with a bit of milk from the resident Loth-cows.  Not a proper blue color but oddly reviving considering the hot night and this oppressive early morning.

          When they’d sat and munched a few moments in silence, Rey reached into the pack and drew out a book.  One of the texts she’d taken from Ach-to.  She wedged a cookie between her teeth and flipped to the page she wanted.

          “The overlapping of worlds,” she said, pointing to an illustration: two circles, planets maybe, one rising behind the other.  The rising circle was black, the one below uncolored.

          “Seems pretty on point,” Leia said.  She scanned the text.  Archaic.  She didn’t remember encountering this tome before.

          “It’s called Exegol.”  Rey tapped the picture—the dark star rising over the light.  “It’s a Sith world.  Maybe the first Sith world, but it can’t be found on any map of the galaxy.  The text here says it ‘lets things through,’ and also that it moves around.  I think it’s related to Palpatine’s message.  He mentions ‘the hinges at the end of worlds.’”

          “What makes you think that’s not just Sith nonsense?” Leia asked.  But the delicate wafer she’d eaten felt like lead in her stomach.  There was something here.  She could feel it.  Something rising just like that ominous black dot.

          “Doors have hinges.”  Rey’s lashes swept her cheek.  Her voice dropped low.  “They let things in.  And anyway…you feel it too, don’t you?  That’s something’s coming…?”

          “Something like the end?” Leia sighed and downed her tea.  It was bitter now, but it was hot.  A chill entirely unrelated to the cooling unit gnawed at her.  “Yeah, I felt it,” she said.  “I feel it now.”

          “This says that Exegol is a place of deciding,” Rey said, maintaining her quiet, cautious tone.  It was as if she feared someone would hear her.  Leia could guess who that someone might be.  “It’s a locus point, like Mortis, where great fates play out.”

          “Like the fates of heroes?” Leia asked dryly. 

          “Master…” Rey looked up. “I felt the connection again.  Last night.  Just before the transmission came in.  Ben—Kylo Ren was in trouble.  I helped him.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to, but--”

          “You’re a kind person,” Leia said.  “Don’t apologize for that.”

          “But he’s hunted us.  Trapped us--”

          “He isn’t kind,” Leia agreed.  “But I suspect some of this is out of your hands.  It would make sense, if Palpatine is back, he’d want to play the Supreme Leader and the Last Jedi off each other.  That’s all he’s done for generations. That’s all the evil bastard knows how to do.  What I can’t figure is why he’d involve a whole other dimension.  That feels like a stretch, even for him.”  She scowled.  “He wouldn’t know these other ‘heroes’ he’s on about, would he?  And knowing people, using them, that’s always been his thing.”

          “I think he knows enough,” Rey said. “His spirit has been out there thirty years.  More than enough time to get into trouble. Maybe he flitted back to Exegol and used these ‘hinges’ of his.”

          “Maybe,” Leia nodded.  “But he’s talking about other dimensions.  Merging two realities into one.  What sort of other heroes are we talking about? Different versions of you?  Things with tentacles?  What?”

          “No,” Rey said.  “I think it’s the wolves.”

          “The wolves?”

          “I was looking for them again before this happened.  There’s something about them.  Something about this planet.”

          “The Force,” Leia nodded.  She’d felt it too.

          “It wanted us here,” Rey said. “The feeling is stronger around the Loth-wolves so I went to investigate.”

          “And?” Leia asked. The girl had drifted off, remembering something, or thinking how to frame her next words.

          “It sounds crazy,” Rey said.  “But I think one of them is a man.  The leader of the pack…introduced us.”  She blushed a little, but Leia only shrugged.

          “That’s no more crazy than a dead man coming back to life.  Did you happen to get this fellow’s name?”

          Rey nodded—and her Force signature flickered.  She was reluctant. But also deadly certain.

          “Master,” she said, “I have to find him. He’s one of them.  One of Palpatine’s ‘heroes.’  That thing Palpatine said in the transmission?  About what happens if the galaxy doesn’t surrender?  Well, the man in the wolf…The pack leader told me his name is Snow.”

          Leia Organa could have laughed.  Not happily.  It was too perfect.  Too awful.  She clutched the head of her cane, fingers trembling, the room suddenly as freezing as Hoth. 

          And isn’t that appropriate? she thought.  She’d listened to the Sith transmission three times. 

          If these demands are not met, the dead man had cackled, then winter will come for the galaxy. A winter of eternal cold where even the dead will serve my will!

          Eternal cold.  Living death.  She exhaled, expecting her breath to mist the air. But the merciless whiteness she envisioned was only in her mind. At least for now. 

          “When are you going?” she asked Rey.

          “The wolves come at dusk.  I’ll go then.”

          “All right,” Leia nodded.  She didn’t bother to add that the sooner they found this wolf-man, Snow, the better.  As she squeezed Rey’s hand in a silent goodbye, fear worried her like an animal. It was true that the Force had brought them here, and from the way it swelled around her, they were on the right track.

          But another, much darker certainty followed.  A message like the chant of a thousand distant voices.

          Winter will come for the galaxy.

         Leia shook her head.  “No,” she whispered. “Winter is here.”

Chapter Text

Tyrion

Tyrion, who’d once drunk himself across the narrow sea, was glad he’d forgone his usual breakfast of wine.  The air-skiff Hataska Ren guided over the bleak and smoking terrain was beginning to make him feel ill. The air, it turned out, had as many swells as the sea and could toss you about like a ship in a storm.  The stinking wind smelled of funeral pyres instead of fish, but blew in his face like a winter squall, its ashen smell reminding him of Winterfell and the aftermath of the Long Night.  The mass burning that day had been an act of respect to honor the loss of countless lives, but in the back of their minds, the survivors had been anxious less the dead men rise again.  Throughout the Seven Kingdoms incineration had taken over as the favored method of disposing of the dead.  Man or woman, crofter or lord, once you died, you burned.  Even Lady Sansa, protectress of the ancient ways of the Starks, had adopted the new tradition.  The Starks of Winterfell still lay interred in their crypts, but as ashes instead of mummified flesh.  She had been there when the Kings of Winter rose.  Tyrion wondered if, like him, she still had nightmares about it.

          At least they were nightmares, he thought now, clapping a hand over his mouth as the skiff began to slow.  The terrible message he’d been witness to the night before, suggested that the Great War was far from over.

         You must deliver the two heroes from each world to me before red star and dark star rise above the Sith.  If these demands are not met, winter will come for the galaxy.  A winter of eternal cold where even the dead will serve my will!

         The voice had been cracked and so redolent of evil Tyrion found himself thankful the Night King had been mute.  Why must every despot blather on and on in tones and accents that, by themselves, could drive you mad?

          The terrain, still smoking, had now grown slushy, bubbling mud and sharp trees springing up from the waste.  Kinvara, her red dress fluttering beside Hataska Ren’s imposing armor, straightened in anticipation.  Tyrion knew she sensed something prophetic, as she did in everything from the sunrise to the color of an egg.  Dragon, chicken, it didn’t matter.  Somehow, she would make it serve her purposes.

         It worked for her predecessor, Tyrion thought as the company (his skiff and the one bearing Ser Kylo and the queen) settled at the edge of a dank-looking clearing.  A noisome span of water stretched before them. 

        Melisandre of Asshai.  He groped for the name.  He hadn’t known her well, but he remembered Ser Davos’s tale: the moment the Long Night ended, the Red Woman turned to dust and bone.  It was as if she’d sensed the real ruin on the horizon and decided on a graceful exit. 

         So the priestesses of Asshai have a handle on fate.  His inner voice turned argumentative as he stumped down the gangplank.  Does that mean that all this is necessary?  That Daenerys must align with him? Knights and priestesses drifted around him in a swirl of red and black, the ancient colors of the Targaryens.  But these weren’t Targaryens.  Some weren’t even human.  And the man they called Supreme Leader…

          Tyrion had a bad feeling about him.

          Bran said—began the loyal part of his mind, but a wiser, wilier part of him resisted.  Bran turned into a tree.  Before that, he was a raven.  A Three-Eyed-Raven who flew where he didn’t belong.

          The thought had gnawed at him all night as he tossed and turned on his unfamiliar bed.  His chamber was too vast, too shadowy.  No smell of clean rushes or well-loved books.  His discomfort of form led to discomfort of mind: wasn’t all of this Bran’s fault?  It had been Bran who’d discovered Jon’s heritage and caused the rift between Jon and Daenerys.  It had been Bran who saw all and offered so little, who went poking in strange realms, unleashing dark powers.  Perhaps, bereft of friends and support, Daenerys might have unleashed fury on King’s Landing anyway—but Bran’s actions had guaranteed it—with an extra dose of burned children on the side.

          When Tyrion had seen that ghostly transmission and heard that smug, frog-croaking voice of the Emperor, a part of him had hated Brandon Stark and knew the Broken King had earned his dubious title.  Intentionally or not, maliciously or not, Bran had broken rules, then rulers, then realms, and the fact that he had also healed and nurtured seemed to pale when Tyrion saw Daenerys on Kylo Ren’s arm. 

         Are the gods so cruel they’d use her to destroy two worlds? he wondered as her pale figure flitted before him at the lake-edge.  (Ser Kylo said this visit to “the Oracle” was the next step in destroying Palpatine, but who knew what that even meant?)  Bran had said to deliver her to Ser Kylo, but if Kylo Ren was the promised one, why did the air fret around him? Why was his presence a close, frenzied twin to the turmoil that had been on the ground that day? The day hope died and King’s Landing fell, the dying screams of its citizens ringing in the ears of its savior? 

         This Palpatine wants a dark hero and light, the rational side of Tyrion commented.  But if Daenerys stayed with Ren she’d be darkness too.  She was a Targaryen.  A flame.  Ren would make her an inferno.  Despite everything he’d seen, and done, and knew, a part of Tyrion believed Daenerys could be a beacon instead.

          Not here though, he thought.  Not in this swamp. Bran had been wrong to go drifting—he could be wrong about this, too.  Seven Hells—everyone was wrong about something.  How desperately Tyrion wanted to be right!

          He wandered disconsolately over the mud, pushing past Knights and Red Priestesses. The little droid, BB-39, chirped on his heels, rolling effortlessly over patches that made Tyrion stumble.  The silly creature had been following him of late.  Tyrion didn’t know why.  Maybe it was lonely? From what he’d gleaned from Daenerys’s maidens, they’d found the thing covered in a sheet along with its metal brothers.  Kinvara has said to turn them on so they could “make way for the coming of the Lord.”  Perhaps they’d sat around unused for a time and simply wanted to earn their keep.

          “Stop it,” Tyrion muttered, as BB-39 bumped at his heels.  He was ankle-deep in muck now, still pushing towards the shore.  The red gowns and dark armor clustered together as Kylo Ren raised a fist and did something with the Force.

          A strange buzzing filled Tyrion’s head.  That was the closest he could come to describing it.  It was a little like what he felt when he neared one of the dragons: something unfamiliar and understood at once.  As with the beasts, he could almost grasp it.  If only he could, how different things would be.

          An ugly, snarling sound came from the lakeshore.  It was a moment before Tyrion recognized Ser Kylo’s voice.  The grating language he uttered was the same the Emperor had spoken, indecipherable before translation by the insectile protocol droid. (Although, Tyrion thought, gaining the shore at last, he felt certain Kinvara and her companions had understood it, both last night’s transmission and whatever Ren was gargling.  The mutterings of the Sith and the mutterings of the Shadow were two rooms separated by a swinging door.)

          The snarling was now joined by a rush-and-gurgle as a huge shape surfaced from the lake. Steam and mist obscured it a moment before wafting aside to reveal a face. 

          Not a face, a head, Tyrion thought.  He nearly fled from his hard-won vantage point.  The creature had a smooth, hairless skull that listed to one side like a sleeping infant’s.  Indeed, its heavy eyes were closed, its piggish nose resting just above the water.  Tyrion, noting nothing amphibious about it, wondered how it managed to breathe.  Then he saw the spindly creature atop it—a pale, hammer-headed thing with as many legs as a spider.  Its jointed appendages clutched at the head in a way that appeared oddly symbiotic.  Somehow the spider-thing kept the infant alive, though what sort of life, Tyrion shuddered to think on.

          Like the infant, the spider had man-like features—or at least, eyes and mouth where a man’s normally lay.  It spoke—and when the lipless mouth moved, it flashed the razor teeth of a lizard-lion.

          “Once more we meet, my lord of Ren.”  Its legs adjusted themselves around the head like a scrabbling hand.  A deep, sad groan sounded from the giant, and a terrific, muddy stench floated out from the bog. Everyone save Kylo and Daenerys retreated.  Even Kinvara raised a gossamer sleeve to her nose.  Ser Kylo, however, seemed to know the creature intimately.  His arms hung limply.  He made no attempt to draw his saber.

          “Oracle,” he said.  “You know the answers I seek.”

          The spider nodded.  “I do. But I will not tell.”

          A murmur went through the company. 

          “What?” Ser Kylo demanded.

          The spider flexed what appeared to be its shoulders.  Was it shrugging, or had Tyrion finally gone mad?  He’d wondered more than once whether all this was a dream, whether he’d tripped down the great stairs on his last trip to the Sept of Baelor.  Under King Bran, the Sept was rebuilt and Tyrion had been allowed to inter Jaime and Cersei.  Their ashes lay together in a golden sarcophagus and Tyrion was prone to drink before and after his visits.  It was entirely possible he’d got in his cups, then taken a plunge down the sharply chiseled stairs.  Maybe he was lying there even now, his brains sluiced across the steps like—

          “I won’t tell you,” the Oracle said, its head swiveling away from Kylo.  “But I will tell Tyrion Lannister.”

          Insects chirped in the sparse, dark reeds.

          Everyone turned to Tyrion.

          “Me?” he wobbled on his feet, still not recovered from the ride in the skiff.  All the attention settled on him like a weight, birthing the beginnings of a monstrous headache.  The Oracle’s regard was particularly bad.  Just looking at the thing made Tyrion nauseous.  It wasn’t how alien it was either.  It was how human.  Almost like someone he knew.

          Qyburn, he decided.  Cersei’s lunatic Maester.  This thing was as cunning and unfathomable.  

          “Why me?” he all-but pleaded.

           But the Oracle didn’t respond.

          It told.

          I am the Eye of Webbish Bog.  The sinister voice was suddenly in his head.  Everyone but the erstwhile BB-39 backed away, hands convulsively covering their ears.  Ser Kylo swept Daenerys under his arm and yelled something that sounded like “interference!” but Tyrion would never know for sure because, along with the voice, came the images.

          I am the Eye of Webbish Bog.  The Time of Darkness is at hand.  The dead return to life and speak, transforming all they touch to ruin.

          The images accompanying the hissing tirade were dark and murky, but lit with flame.  Tyrion cried out as he recognized, for a moment, Daenerys herself, rising from a fire.

          That’s the past, he knew.  Kinvara’s resurrection.  Daenerys was with her, and all her priests, by the sea.  As the queen emerged naked from the crimson flames, eggs containing new dragons  cracked open at her feet.

          “WHAT’S IT SAYING?” Ser Kylo roared.  It was as if a huge windstorm had blown up between them.  Ren still had one arm around Daenerys and one hand to his head as if to hold it in place.  Tyrion, for his part, found his lips had gone numb.  He could only mumble the words as the Oracle’s visions poured through him.   

          “A time of darkness,” he heard himself say.  “The dead are coming to kill us all.  It is your Emperor who sent the message…”

          His heart chilled.  The Oracle’s next image was a throne.

          The Iron Throne?  He didn’t think it was.  But it was similar.  A spiked chair in a cold, grim hall.  Shadows assembled themselves into figures. There were five, all bu one armed with shining blades and fire... 

          “WHAT’S IT SAYING?” insisted Ser Kylo.

          “There’s a throne,” Tyrion said.  “The Emperor’s throne.  He’s set himself up in a place called Exegol.  You must face him.  You both must face him.  You, Daenerys… and two others…”

          Something flickered on Ren’s face.  To Tyrion it looked a lot like terror.

          “Who?” asked Ser Kylo.  But the Oracle wasn’t done.  Its hisses and visions overflowed in Tyrion’s mind.  He heard himself speak in the creature’s voice, spat forth words as he might have expelled rotten meat.

          The fate of two realities collide.  The balance must be restored to each. The Lord of the Sith awaits the Dyad: darkness and light to restore the balance.  The Lord of the Dead awaits the Dragon and the Wolf.  Ice and Fire must destroy the past.  All must journey to Exegol, taking with you the other half of yourselves.  Knight and Dragon.  Wolf and Sun.  You must wield, together, the Red Blade of Heroes.  If you do not, the darkness shall reign and all heroes and realities fall.

          His throat was parched before the end.  Raw. Like flesh stripped off the bone.  A rush of water, far too gentle for such upheaval, indicated the Eye of Webbish Bog had taken itself off.  The shore steamed.  Tyrion knelt upon it, Ser Kylo, and his beautiful queen stood above him.  Ser Kylo had drawn his snarling sword and it lit up faces, lit up eyes. Daenerys’ eyes: red-as-blood.  She’d come back that way: no more grey, green, or blue.  She was the Dragon but once she’d had eyes like the sea and a mouth that smiled softly if all-too-rarely. 

          She didn’t smile now.  Her face was bathed in crimson. 

         The Red Blade of Heroes! Tyrion thought, inanely.

          She said:

          “The Wolf.  Ice and Fire.”

          Tyrion nodded.  “It’s exactly what you think, your grace.”

          “If you’re making this up” Ser Kylo threatened.

          “He isn’t.”  Daenerys placed a hand on the Knight’s arm.  “I can sense his thoughts.  The truth in them.  Besides: you heard him speak in that thing’s voice.”

          “Kriff fuck.” Abruptly, Ser Kylo’s blade went out.  He turned away, muttering to himself.

          Daenerys remained as he stalked off down the shore, her brow wrinkled in worry, her pale dress stirring. Though the wind was hot, the queen shivered.

          “You’re sure?” she asked.  Her hand went to her breast.

          “I’m sure,” said Tyrion.  “You have to find Jon Snow.”

          “How is this possible?” she asked.

          “I don’t know, my lady.  Truly, I do not.”

          Ser Kylo, done with his tiff, came stalking back, his cloak sweeping majestically behind him.  “It’s the Force,” he said offhandedly.  The man had droids but took magic as an established fact.  “Did the Oracle show you anything else?” he demanded.  “How to get to fucking Exegol, maybe?”  His gloved hand clenched with a leathery creak.

          Preparing to raid my mind again, Tyrion thought.

          Fortunately, he had an answer.

          “Yes, my lord,” he said.  “It did show me that.”

Chapter Text

Daenerys

Kylo Ren had a wonderful machine called a “refresher,” and once they’d returned from the Oracle, Daenerys spent an hour beneath its spray.  The water was good and scalding hot and the rush of it calmed her mind for awhile. 

           Her head buzzed with prophecies in the insect voice of the Oracle.  The creature had channeled most of its horrors through Tyrion, but stray visions and feelings had come to Dany as well.  Dread and darkness and a strange, deep cold, deeper even than the hollow she felt in her breast.  It was familiar, that cold.  She had never forgotten it.

          The cold of the Long Night and its King.

          Gods no, she prayed.  She had survived that battle once.  She couldn’t do it a second time.  She’d seen nothing on the other side of the grave, but there was a hell—she’d already walked there.  On the Long Night she’d seen dead men tear at her dragons.  Seen her child, Viserion, usurped and defiled.  Her best knight, Ser Jorah, had died stabbed and savaged by the countless blades of shuffling, blue-eyed horrors.

          This was the future this Palpatine spoke of, the future half-glimpsed in Webbish Bog. 

          It wasn’t really the future at all. 

          The Emperor threatened to turn back time.   

          Unless his demands are met, she thought.  Unless I stand before him with Jon Snow.

          She would rather walk in hell again.  Rather mount Drogon and ride into the Heart of Winter.

          My heart…

          She remained a long time in the water.  The sweet, hot water.  Shivering.

###

She spent most of the day with her dragons.  There were many now.  So many more than before.  She had been reborn on smoking Valyria and spent a year cloistered in Asshai. Whether through the magic of one or both those kingdoms, the new dragons had grown faster than the old.  Some were nearing Drogon’s size and, just before Kinvara led her through the door, Daenerys had wondered if she might not conquer Westeros after all.  But she was weary and confused and Kinvara counseled her to patience.

          There are other worlds you might rule, my queen. 

          At the time, the words had reassured her.  To rule was her birthright—and she was filled with purpose.  She had walked through fire so many times.  Birthed dragons.  Survived death.  There must be a reason.

          Yet when Tyrion told her of Palpatine, she had felt that reason slip away.

          “My queen?”

          She looked up.  It was evening, now.  She was standing on the arras, leaning against Drogon.  The black dragon looked out at the burning horizon with an expression as wistful as Daenerys felt.

          Wistful, yes, she told herself.  It must be wistful.  It could not be empty.

          “My queen?” the voice repeated.  It was one of Kinvara’s girls.  Preistesses in training.  They had not yet dyed their hair or gained the deep red eyes of one reborn in blood and fire.

          “Yes?” Dany asked.

          “Ser Kylo has returned.”  The girl’s sweet, low voice reminded her of Missandei.  The resemblance distracted Daenerys for a moment.

          “Returned?” she nearly said—but then she remembered.  Her Lord of Ren had disappeared into the deeps beneath the castle to search for the device Tyrion had mentioned.

          “Did he find it?” Daenerys asked.

          “I do not know, my queen.  He seeks an audience with you.”

          “I will meet him,” Dany agreed instantly.  Strange as it was, Ser Kylo was her one comfort.  A living embodiment of pain and fury—true--but were those not the same forces that warred in her heart?

          My heart…

          “Girl,” she asked.  “Did you tell me your name, before?”

          “Javira, your grace.”  The girl curtsied, head low.  She looked nothing like Missandei—fair and freckled and straight-haired—yet her mannerisms stirred up memories. 

          “Are you all right, my queen?” Javira asked.  Drogon had turned his great head towards her, sensing the source of his mother’s sadness.  Javira’s legs trembled as she stood her ground, and Dany quickly soothed the dragon with a touch.

          It’s all right, sweet thing, she thought.  She and Drogon didn’t need the Force to communicate.  The dragon subsided and Daenerys smiled.

          “I am well,” she said.  “Will you help me prepare for Ser Kylo?”

          “Of course, my queen.” Javira’s legs steadied.  Together, she and Daenerys crossed the smoldering pit at the heart of the receiving chamber.

          Queen she calls me, Daenerys thought.  But queen of what? 

          The taste of ashes coated her tongue.

###

Later, she found Ser Kylo waiting by the fireplace, a booted foot braced on its oversized ledge. He held something in his hand as he turned to face her.  The room pulsed with shadow and light.

          Javira and another girl had dressed Dany’s hair and faded away at her command.  They’d left behind two silvery goblets of Corellian wine which Dany took from an ebon side-table as she passed.  She held one cup between her breasts (their flesh half bared by her dark gown) and set the other gently by Ser Kylo’s foot.  He’d found new boots, the soles un-melted. 

          For an instant, laughter rose in her throat.  It was funny.  He was such a serious young man.  But the laughter died almost as it came.  It was as if she had forgotten how.

          “This is the…wayfinder?” she asked, searching for the word Tyrion had used. It was a dark, triangular talisman set with opaque panes of glass on each of its faces.  They glowed faintly, white lines running across them.  Wavelike.  A map of some kind?

          “The dwarf was right,” Ser Kylo said.  His tone was grudging.  He misliked Tyrion. He was hardly the first.

          “You have much in common with him, you know,” Dany chided. 

          “So I’ve heard,” Ser Kylo said.  “He killed his father. For revenge.”

          “Revenge played no part in your dealings with Han Solo?”  Dany asked.  She sipped at her wine. The dark taste of it pleased her. 

          “I needed to be free of my past,” Ser Kylo said.  “At the time, Han Solo was my last obstacle.”

          “Tywin Lannister was an obstacle,” Dany said. 

          “Yes,” Ser Kylo nodded.  “And his son killed you too.”

          She flinched.  “Tyrion didn’t hold the knife.”

          “He plotted against you,” Ser Kylo said.  “You didn’t deserve it.  He doesn’t deserve you.  But he thinks he does.  I saw it in his mind.”

          “I’m not so sure I didn’t deserve it,” Dany said faintly.  “Even with Palpatine--”

          “You think those people you conquered would have shown you mercy in your place?”  The wayfinder creaked in Ser Kylo’s hand as he gestured at the world beyond the chamber.  “Don’t deceive yourself, Daenerys.  Everyone uses the Dark Side when it suits them.”

          “I wanted to bring Light,” Dany protested.  “Light and peace, not war and ashes.”

          “Peace is a lie.”  Ser Kylo nearly smiled.  “Palpatine used you.  That death and chaos?  That was him.  He exists to pit the Dark against the Light, to keep the wheel spinning for his own amusement.  That’s all he’s ever wanted.  All he’s ever been.  He’s not even a true Sith: he wants to be a god.”         

          A hairline crack appeared in one of the wayfinder’s panes. Ser Kylo grimaced, then tucked the thing into a compartment on his belt.  “I won’t be used,” he hissed to himself.  “I won’t let him use either of us.”  Abruptly, he picked up his wineglass and dashed it to pieces on the hearth.

          Dany started.  As he straightened to his full height before her she could feel the heat of him through his clothes.  He wants to touch me, she thought—yet he was waiting for her, his dark eyes searching hers for consent. 

          Slowly, she placed her hands on his doublet.  They looked white and helpless.  Two white moths against the black.  His heart beat fiercely beneath her touch.  A strand of midnight hair slipped over his face.

          Jon had dark hair too, she thought.  An abrupt sadness flooded her.  The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.  He loved me. He killed me …

          Ser Kylo sighed deeply as she sunk against him, as if something he’d long wanted had been bestowed, but Dany found her own body tighten and shudder.  She couldn’t remember laughter, but here were tears.

          “No, don’t think of him.”  Ser Kylo stroked her hair as her cheek burrowed against his chest.  “He was unworthy. He can’t hurt you.  We don’t need either of them.”

          “Them?” He smelled of leather and smoke.  Not unpleasant.  It was a safe smell.  The smell of dragons.

          “Palpatine says to bring the others with us,” he whispered, “but what if only we appear?”  His fingers delved into her hair.  He still wore his gloves.  His touch was soft .

          “I don’t understand,” Dany murmured.  When had a man last touched her?  When had anyone other than Kinvara with her spells?

          “He needs two sets of heroes,” Kylo said.  “If we kill the others his plans are destroyed.”  He looked down at her.  “We can destroy him.  You and me.  Destroy them all and rule together.”

          “Rule what?” Dany said. 

          “The galaxy.”  His gloved hand slid around to cradle her cheek.  He drew his arm around her, drew his cloak around her as if she were a child he intended to comfort. 

          So warm, Dany thought, looking up at him.  He was tall and strong, his body hard against her own.  She shivered, strained up on her toes, eager to taste his mouth at last. 

          When she kissed him the Force opened her to his mind and she saw a green world turning among the stars. 

          Tears sprang to her eyes and she shut them fast.  She flung her arms around his neck, pressed closer to his heat.  He filled her mind with images of lush green hillsides, of slender trees with yellow fruit shading a house with a red door. 

          “Do you want it?” he panted against her lips.  “I can give it to you, but you have to do something for me.”

          She nodded, kissing him, fiercer and fiercer.  He groaned as her teeth nipped his full lower lip.

          “I want it,” she said.  He makes me feel warm, she thought. I am cold and dead and he makes me feel alive…

          “Help me kill them,” he whispered, hands sliding down her body.  “Help me repay them for their betrayals.”

          Daenerys moaned as he claimed her mouth again.  The images he spun flashed through her mind.  The green planet strewn with palaces.  Its sweet orchards in spring, the petals raining down.  Each one seemed to settle in her heart, to press down on her, like a hand on a wound.

         “Don’t you want to hurt them?” Kylo asked.  His gloved hands crept under her gown, stroking and teasing.  She wore no smallclothes and, in a moment, he had found her nether-mouth, edging his fingers along her lips until they dampened.

          It wasn’t the pleasure that decided her, though. 

          It was absence in her heart. 

          I don’t love him, she thought.  And he doesn’t love me.  But his touch, his power, made her feel.  As her mind and her body groped back to life she found her lust for him outmatched only by her rage.  She did want it: these things he offered her.  The green lands and safety—and the recompense.  Her hands became claws as she gripped his shirt, wanting nothing so much as his heat joined with hers.

          “Yes,” he breathed.  “Yes.  Give me your hatred.  Give me your anger.  Give me your fire...”

          “I want them dead,” she told him.  “All my enemies.”  A bead of blood stained Kylo’s lips as she broke their kiss.  “Take these off.” She tugged urgently at his hands.  He removed the gloves.  Removed his cloak and his clothes and his shoes. He stood naked before her, hard and pale, and Daenerys Targaryen was pleased with the sight. 

          She pulled him towards the bed in the corner of the room, the great bed with its garnet silks and black hangings.  He tore at her gown as she led him on, his breath ragged when he pressed her down beneath him.

          As the dark tide of desire closed over her, Dany thought she saw something glitter at the chamber door. That little droid, like a ball, that followed Tyrion.  Had she seen…?  But no.  There was nothing there. 

          She gave herself up to darkness and fire.

          For a time, it was like being reborn.

Chapter Text

Rey

The first day of searching ended in failure.  They stumbled back to base, hot and exhausted.  Finn, Rose, and Poe had joined Rey on her quest—and BB-8, of course, who couldn’t be parted from Poe for long.  They’d begun at the abandoned communications tower where Rey had previously seen the Loth-wolves, but they could find no tracks or any other traceable signs of the creatures, not even when they spread out towards the surrounding hills.

          “Wouldn’t wolves sleep in caves?” Poe demanded, exasperated after they’d explored every inch of every cavern within speeder distance.

          “Not these ones, buddy,” Finn had told him.  It was true.  Other than some dried Loth-cat droppings, none of the caverns bore signs of habitation.

          No wolves or man, Rey thought.  So where had the pack come from that night?

          The next day didn’t go any better.

          Today, Rey had decided on a break.

          She supposed the search had been good for one thing: they’d found a pleasant waterfall two miles out of camp.  Among a ring of striated rock formations, a cool rill trickled down into a natural alcove.  Angular boulders, tumbled in some long-ago slide, extended the alcove and provided privacy.  You could strip down and cool off while your friends waited outside, chatting on the luxurious, shaded grass.  Rey could hear them now: Poe joking about making this his “bachelor pad,” and Finn making some uncouth remark about rugs.  Their voices drifted in and out of Rey’s perception as she let the water rinse away the grime of the last two days. 

          The water was a chilly-but-welcome relief as the temperature of Lothal continued to climb.  Lothal’s summer was nowhere near as bad as a typical day on Jakku, but it still made Rey’s task laborious.  What she’d read in the Jedi texts suggested a mystical convergence, and she felt a clock ticking in her mind.  She could take these few hours, probably, but she really had to find this “Snow.” Failure to do so would be deeply unpleasant in an “end-of-the-galaxy” kind of way.

         She sighed and leaned her head into the rill.  Then there was that whole other part of the mystery.  Somehow, she had to reconnect with Ben Solo—and not only across their shared bond.  Other than Palpatine’s, the First Order was still jamming transmissions (Rose described the Emperor’s communique as “too evil” to block).  They were also still monitoring every nominally civilized world for the barest stirring of the Resistance.  Even if I find Snow, Rey thought, how do we make it safely off-world?  Leia’s transport was grounded.  Fuel was scarce.  The Falcon, where she’d set up quarters, was infamous.  A small blockade of Star Destroyers circled the planet.  Any foray ran the risk of discovery.  If the Order glimpsed even one of their ships, they’d know where their enemy had gone to ground.

        They’ll vaporize us before we can jump to light, Rey thought.  And after that they’ll blast the camp and execute the locals. The transmissions with which the Order routinely terrorized the airwaves (all delivered in the ranting voice of General Hux) promised that all “collaborators” would be “neutralized.”  

          Hardly advantageous circumstances in which to contact Kylo Ren.

          The water finally felt too cold.  Shivering, Rey reached for a towel.  She had just managed to wrap the thing around her when the Force surged up with dark energy.

          A shadow rose before her, blocking the light, blocking the path leading from her refuge.  An invisible tether snapped into place. 

          She knew the feel of him before he spoke a word.

          “So,” he grated. “This is how you spend your time.”

          “Ben,” Rey gasped.  But, of course, that was wrong.  The seething figure before her was Kylo Ren: Supreme Leader of the Galaxy

          “I take it you’ve heard the news?” he said as if picking up a conversation they’d been having.  “The Emperor?  The two pairs of heroes?”

          Rey secured her towel around her chest.  “I’ve heard,” she growled.

          The wisp of a smile—quickly stifled—turned one corner of his mouth.  His scowl, always dark, deepened to midnight.

          “What about the blade?” he said.  “What about the dragons?”

           “Dragons?” Oh good. Maybe he’s gone mad, she thought.  Madmen made mistakes. They could be beaten more easily. 

          But sometimes they come back to themselves.  Hard as she’d tried, she couldn’t relinquish the thought.

          “Oh sorry,” Kylo mocked her.  “It’s wolves, for you.  A man in a wolf named Jon Snow.”

          “Jon Snow?” she mouthed.  “How do you…?”

          “An inside source.”  Now he did smile.  It was rigid.  Didn’t reach his eyes.

          He’s angry with me, she thought, confused.  But why?  He’d wanted her with him, before.  Shouldn’t he be happy with the Emperor’s scheme?  Fate would force her to take his hand.

         You’re nothing, she remembered.  But not to me.    

         She flushed—and summoned the calm of the Force.  She was wet and mostly naked, but she wouldn’t let him intimidate her.  They were equals.  In a way, they were one.

          “Ben,” she said, deliberately using his real name (and masking her disappointment when it had no outward affect), “you know this means we have to work together.”

          “Does it?” His smile hardened as he stepped towards her.  “Does it comfort you, Rey?  To believe Palpatine’s lies?”

          “He’s not lying,” Rey said quietly.  “The Force is bringing us together.”

          “Then why aren’t you with me now?” He sounded almost innocent, but there was an accusation in his voice. 

          “The other heroes--” she began.

          “You haven’t found yours yet.  The wolf-man.  Why hasn’t the Force led you to him?”

          “I’m close,” she snapped.

          “Well, I’ve already found mine.”  He said it so mildly it was as if he’d suddenly spoken Rodean.  Rey gaped at him a moment before she found her own words.

          “You already found…?”

          “The dragon.  Yes.”  He paused.  “Actually, she found me.”

          “She?” Rey didn’t like his expression.  Far too smug and self-satisfied by half.  Something in the way he straightened his shoulders made her want to reach for her lightsaber.

          I don’t like the way I just squeaked either, she thought.  She only hoped that, in his arrogance, Kylo had ignored it.

          “She’s beautiful,” he whispered suddenly, his voice as intimate as a knife twist in the dark.  So much for blind arrogance.  He knew what Rey was thinking—and exactly how to hurt her with it.  “Beautiful and powerful,” he continued.  “More…experienced than you.”

          “Lots of people are.”  Rey kept her voice casual—but she’d rather he’d have kicked her in the ribs.  You could fight a kick.  Emotions were harder.  None as hard as the dense muddle currently settling in her chest.

          “I think you’re wrong about the Force,” Kylo said.  He loomed a little nearer. She didn’t think to step back.  Even cruel, he was magnetic, dark and mysterious, his long, unusual features as familiar to her as her own.  Their bond shivered, something solidifying between them, and once more she thought, with agony, that they were somehow meant to be…

          “You’re a fool, Rey,” he whispered.  Words she might have told herself.  His gloved hand rose between them and rested caressingly on her cheek.  It was such a natural motion, somehow, that, for a second she didn’t notice his touch was real.  When the realization hit her it was already too late.  She gasped as his fingers knotted in her hair.  He raised her slightly on her toes as he bent close to murmur into her ear.

          “Lothal,” he breathed.  “That’s where you are.  Looking for a lone, white wolf.  Maybe Palpatine needs two sets of heroes, but I think the Force only needs one.  And since I have the Dragon Queen, I think we’ll be just fine without you.”  She felt a tremor run through his body as if he meant to shove her away—but he stopped himself, as she had so many times, pulled off-course from his better judgement by their strange bond.  Rey found herself looking into his eyes—those dark eyes which could appear black, but which turned hazel in the sun.  She could smell his clothes, the clean, sharp scent of his hair—and see the sudden flash of anguish that contorted his face.

          “Why didn’t you take my hand?” he said.  “Why didn’t you join me when you had the chance?”

          “Because I’d never let you kill my friends,” Rey said.  “And I won’t let you kill Ben Solo, either.”

          Again, his reaction was not what she’d have expected.  That name made him rage—now he only shook his head.

          “You should have come with me,” he said, shaking.  “It would have stopped it.  If we’d been…whole.”

          “We can still be whole, Ben,” Rey whispered.  Her skin prickled, and not from the waterfall.  His look was wild.  Desolate.  As if he’d seen a future in which everything burned. 

          “It’s too late,” he whispered.  “We all make choices.  I told you: you have to kill the past.”  His thumb stroked her cheek, smeared the first of her tears.  His quiet defeat was more terrifying than any of his rages.

          “Ben,” she began.  She tried to hold him.  His great hands clutched her own, lowered them gently away.

          “Rey,” he whispered.  Something gleamed in his eyes.  His lips trembled.  “I’m sorry.  I thought I could do this…”

          “Do what?” Rey asked.  “Ben!  What did you do?!” 

          There was a sound.  A chorus of screams from her friends. 

          Rey looked up into the clear, blue sky where the distant shape of a star destroyer had just popped into view.  She looked back to Kylo and found him gazing at her like something precious he knew he would never see again.

          “I’m sorry,” he repeated.  Their connection was fading.  His hand turned ghostly on her cheek.  “I didn’t want it to end this way,” he said

          “BEN!” Rey shouted.

          “Rey,” he said. “Run.”

Chapter Text

Leia

It was Chewie who alerted her to the threat: barging in on her quarters with a blood-curdling howl.  By the time she thought to ask him what was happening she was slung across his shoulder and halfway back to Command.   Commander D’Acy, her face as white as a sheet, fell in with them as Chewie plowed towards the central display hub. Lieutenant Connix had just brought up an image.  A Resurgent Class First Order Star Destoryer

          “AAARRRGG!!!!” Chewie set Leia down so gently you’d never have suspected he was roaring profanities.

          “It’s okay old friend,” Leia said.  She stroked his arm, trying to calm him as he threw something at the holo.  A battered metal chair he’d torn from a bulkhead.  He hadn’t exactly forgiven Ben for killing Han.

          He understands, though, Leia thought.  Chewie’s howls were tinged with wild despair.  He’d loved Ben as much as anyone.  Had been, in some instances, the only guardian the child had had.

          Oh stop it, Leia ordered herself.  You can beat yourself up if we survive.  Not that that was terribly likely.  They were massively outnumbered.  Their only option was flight.

          “What the hell are you standing around for?” she barked.  Everyone flinched--all twenty-two of them.  Force, how could that be all?  And there were some missing. 

          Where was Rey? 

          No time, Leia thought.  She felt something coming.  Something dark and completely unknown.  On the display, the Star Destroyer remained frozen in position.  It ought to have fired on them or disgorged a fleet of TIEs.  There was nothing.  It just hovered there.

          “What are they doing?” Leia demanded.  “Connix—did the display short out?”

          “Negative General,” Connix stammered.  “They’re holding.  No attempt to communicate.”

          “I don’t want to talk to them anyway,” Leia said.  “D’Acy: sound the evacuation.”

          “Sounded, General,” said poor white-faced D’Acy.  Her wife, the fighter pilot Wrobie Tyce had crept up beside her to hold her hand. 

          Gods, Leia thought.  If they die, it’s on me.  So many wrong turns.  So many disasters. 

          A poisonous fear spread through her body.

          “Come on!” she ordered.  “Let’s go with our plan.  Chewie?”  The Wookie swept her up again.  Undignified, but she wasn’t going to hobble out of here. 

          In a moment, the last remnant of the Resistance had abandoned the Tantive IV.  A small stockpile of battered speeders and one rusty, Imperial prison transport--cribbed or traded for from the scrapyards of Lothal--had been carefully concealed in a nearby canyon.  Leia blinked against the brightness as Chewie loped towards the canyon, his furred legs dragging in the knee-high grass.  At first, she thought the sound that rose around her was Chewie growling in his throat.  Then she realized it was coming from the sky.

          “General!”

          “Master!”

          Rey, Poe, Finn and Rose came speeding towards her, waving frantically from the air skiff they’d borrowed that morning.  BB-8, lashed by cable to one of the railings, waved his torch-arm--activated as if for hand-to-hand combat. Poe banked the skiff just shy of running down R2 and Threepio, the shorter astromech droid butting at the protocol droid’s legs to hurry him along.

          “Oh dear!” Threepio cowered, hands over his eyes—but Leia lost track of him Rey leapt the railing, her lightsaber ablaze.  Finn and Poe weren’t far behind her as she charged towards Leia, Rose bringing up the rear as she loaded BB-8 into a landing lift.  Leia heard her swear just as Rey reached her side.

          “Go! Go! Go!” Rey yelled.  Her look was haunted.  She was wearing only her leggings and top.  Her blaster belt and shoes were in her other hand, no trace of the pretty wrappings she favored.  Damp, frizzed hair blew around her face as if had dried while she clung to the skiff.

          “What in the--” Leia began

          On her left, the Tantive IV exploded.

         Chewie flew forward, knocked off his feet, reflex alone keeping him from smashing Leia beneath him.  (Fortunately, the Wookie was so used to tackling Han, he instinctively twisted in midflight, landing on his back with Leia atop him.) The grass, a constant annoyance these past few months was suddenly the difference between whole or broken bones.  Leia’s breath whooshed out her and Chewie couldn’t have fared much better, but other than that they were unharmed—and able to comprehend the devastation.

          The smell of melted dura-steel and burning grasses rolled towards Leia on a noxious billow of smoke.  The clearing she’d just crossed was now bisected by a wall of fire that spread out from the remains of the Tantive IV.  Leia’s first thought was for anyone who might have been hurt or killed, but in the smoke and confusion, shapes and faces were hard to parse.  Poe and Finn bolted past in survival mode, running from the heat and the shards of burning debris. 

          What’s doing this? Leia reached out with the Force—and got a sense of something vast and winged and leathery.  A giant mynock?  Nothing like that lived on this planet. What the--

          “---agon!” someone yelled. 

          Rey sprang towards her, offering her a hand.  Chewie, still winded, forced himself to his feet.  He’d unslung his bowcaster and, though it must have hurt to do it, he began to track with the crosshair across the sky.

          “It won’t do any good!” Rey told him.  “Kylo’s set a dragon on us!”

          “A dragon dragon?” Leia croaked.  It was hard to hear anything over the flames.  Poe and Finn were nearly to the canyon mouth, hauling ass with another handful of rebels.  Rey yelled and pointed with her lightsaber as the smoke parted to reveal a dark shape wheeling above them. 

          Thing’s half the size of the Tantive, Leia thought.  And it had blown the clunky old ship to hell.

          “Chewie,” Leia said.

          Chewie picked her up again. 

          A furious shrieking sounded above them as everyone bolted for the canyon. 

          As they went, Leia made a headcount.  There was Wrobie and D’Acy, Snap Wexley and C’ai Threnalli.  Young Connix and Beaumont Kin supported a singed Wedge Antilles…

         But where was Rose Tico? 

         Where were the droids?   

         “Wait!” Leia squirmed but Chewie ignored her.  He’d lost Han and Ben, he didn’t want to lose her.  This made him both wonderful and insubordinate--

         And what the hell was Rey doing?

         The girl had paused the middle of the clearing, shoes, belt, and blaster scattered at her feet.  As the dragon bore down with the terminal force of a Star Destroyer, Rey brandished her saber like a candle in a storm.  The Force surged outward from her person, the static of it crackling in Leia’s hair.

         A shield!  Leia could almost see it.  The dragon banked upwards, climbing vertically up its face.  Then the beast vaulted backwards in a massive summersault and, for an instant, Leia caught the pale flash of a woman’s hair. 

        Stars!  Someone is guiding that thing!

        If Rey had noticed, though, she didn’t show it.  She remained stalwart as the beast righted itself for another charge, jaws the size of asteroid craters gaping open to spew a blinding river of flame.  As Rey’s shield shuddered beneath the assault, the air around Leia changed, she and Chewie passing through an invisible barrier.  The dragon fire spilled over the convex surface of the shield and licked at them both as they fled.

         “NO!” Leia screamed.  The flames just missed her face.  She smelled burning fur and heard Chewie cry out in pain.  The Wookie launched himself forward.  Leia tumbled from his arms—

          And fetched up against a pair of boots.

          She raised herself on shaking arms.  A young man stood over her dressed raggedly in black.  For just a moment her heart clenched like a fist.  Oh, Force—

          But it wasn’t Ben. 

          She’d never seen this kid before. 

          He has a beard for kriff’s sake, she chided herself (as much as she could chide at a moment like this).  He also a had a scar above one eye, a decidedly melancholy face…

         And a crimson lightsaber.

         A Knight of Ren!  Instinctively, Leia tried to roll away. 

         “Don’t.”  A calloused hand gestured her to stillness. His demeanor was…oddly protective for an obvious adept of the Dark.

         Dazed, Leia followed his gaze up to the hovering dragon before dropping to the unreal scene on the ground.  Flames swirled around Rey’s Force-shield with a quality more like oil than fire.  The protective globe was starting to break, Rey’ slinking slowly to her knees.  Nearby, Chewbacca roared.  Where was that Wookie?  If he wasn’t hurt, maybe he could pound this Darksider kid into the ground.

        But before Leia could test this hypothesis, two completely nonsensical things happened.

        First, the dragon stopped breathing fire.

        Then, the dragon came for the Knight. 

         As it dove at him, skimming Rey’s shield (which crumbled into sparks as the girl let it go), the grasslands erupted with haunting music.

        Force! Leia thought.

        No dragon-cry, this.

        It was the unmistakable howling of wolves.

Chapter Text

Rey

Her Force-shield shattered and the hot air rushed in: all the hellish heat her powers had kept at bay.  Along with the heat came a smell like snakeskin that left her coughing and swooning upon the grass.  The draft generated by great, fibrous wings flattened her against the earth as the dragon sailed over her.  Its long tail thrashed behind it, scoring the earth, and sending Rey into a reflexive roll.

          It’s coming in for a landing, she thought.  But why?  The most obvious tactic was to strike from the air.  For all their running and defiance, the Resistance couldn’t do much even if they reached the maze of the nearby canyon.  The dragon could just pick them off from above, breathing its bone-melting fire into the corridors.  A few rebels might escape on the transport or speeders, but not for long.  Kylo knew what he was doing.

          And his dragon queen, Rey added, but she was already rising, already flinging herself after the creature.  If she was going to die she would die fighting.  Die jamming her saber down that monster’s throat.

          She sprinted forward, skirting the creature’s leathery hind-quarters, leaping the lashing tail, and the random trenches of fire that dotted the ground.  A weird, hollow sound began before her, but she was too intent on her quarry to dwell on it.  The huge wings—the beast was easily the size of a TIE-fighter—fanned the air as the creature landed, the draft making it impossible to get near.  No telling how much damage just the wings could do, even if the smoky daylight filtered through their tissues.  Rey was forced to skirt wide, then rush back in towards the head—and it was only then she saw the man with the lightsaber.

          A wordless scream of rage escaped her.  The black hair, the black clothes, the blazing red of the blade—but just as fast, she skidded to a halt.  It wasn’t Ben—and he wasn’t interested in her anyway.  Leia, and a slightly charred Chewbacca, were helping one another to safety behind him.  Meanwhile, the dragon loomed over him, serpentine neck like a great question-mark as it looked down.  The air before its jaws shimmered with heat, yet, oddly, its rampage seemed to be cooling.  It only glared, seething—and settling down.  Its lips curled back from jagged teeth as a howling chorus of Loth-wolves disrupted the air.

          The young man who wasn’t Ben Solo lowered his saber and reached slowly for the dragon’s muzzle.

          Rey stopped, her breath caught in her throat, as the presence of the Loth-wolves dawned upon her.  Behind Leia, the fleeing rebels halted just clear of the canyon, their progress blocked by a group of the massive beasts.  For all Rey could tell the wolves had materialized from nothing.  Now they enclosed the rebels in a protective circle, hindquarters facing inward as they bayed at the dragon.  The Force pulsed, a soundless counterpoint to their song, speaking a message of forbearance and restraint.  Rey felt her fear and anger give way to curiosity—an effect in which the dragon, too, seemed to take part.  As the young man stood with his hand outstretched the dragon wagged its head as it to shrug off an invisible bridle.  In the end, though, it bent with a child-like cry, nestling its snout in the outreaching hand.   

          Something not-quite-the-Force stirred as a silence dropped upon the clearing.  Everyone seemed frozen in time, unable to move or look away.  The Loth-wolves ceased their eerie howls as if to give the Knight and dragon space to commune—or for some silent confrontation to take place between the Knight and the woman on the dragon’s back.

          Rey’s heart lurched as a shift in posture brought this second figure into view.  The woman was bent close against the dragon’s neck, her dark clothes creating the illusion that she and the beast were one.  Her bright hair, which Rey had first mistaken for discoloration along the dragon’s neck, now resolved into a long, tightly-bound cable.  Even at this distance, Rey could see how striking she was, how young to possess such obvious power.  There could be no doubt this was Kylo’s queen—or that she knew the strange young man who stood before her.

          Snow.  The voice came through the Force.  Rey followed its calling to the circle of wolves.  It was the pack leader speaking to her now, that rough, animal voice confirming that she’d found the man she sought.

          Snow.  Jon Snow.  Yet why did he carry that saber?  Why did he have eyes only for the dragon queen?

          Rey.  Leia’s Force-call snapped her from her trance.  The Destroyer still hovered over them.  The wind fanned flames.  Snow stood with his hand on the dragon’s muzzle, lost in the eyes of its beautiful rider, and it didn’t take a genius to recognize a lover’s standoff, a history of wounds and longing that could combust like a broken reactor core.

          Confused, Rey slipped towards the Loth-wolves and Leia as unobtrusively as she could.  The pack-leader greeted her with a brief incline of its head—which, in the first break Rey had had all morning, seemed to soothe the huddled Resistance.  Finn and Poe and Leia moved to greet her, casting worried glances at the eerie standoff over their shoulders. 

          “Now what?” Finn hissed.  “We’re missing Rose!” —and the droids!”

          “And the droids,” Poe said.  “They were behind us when the Tantive blew.”  He glared at the dragon.  “I don’t think the skiff exploded, but we’ve got to get around that thing and look.”

          Leia shook her head.  “There’s no time.  We’re proceeding with the evac. Now.”

           “But Rose--” Finn said.

          “Rose is smart.”  Leia’s face was pained.  “If she’s alive she’ll find some way of getting them all to safety.”

          “What do you mean ‘if she’s still alive’?” Finn said. 

          “I don’t like it any better than you do,” Leia said.  “But the best thing we can do is get out of here.  The First Order will be looking for all of us, not one girl and a handful of droids.  If she’s alive, we can give her a chance to hide while we lead the Order in a different direction.”

          “What direction?” Poe was livid.  “We can’t even get to our ships with these creatures surrounding us.”  He gave the ringing Loth-wolves a mistrustful look, his hand twitching around his unholstered blaster.  The pack-leader turned its shaggy head towards his, its snout wrinkling beneath its large yellow eyes.

          “Snow,” it growled for everyone to hear.  It nodded towards the dragon and the Knight.  “Snow,” it repeated.  Then: “Follow.”

          Poe fell down as the beast moved past him, padding towards the higher grass.  At the edge of the verge, it looked back over its shoulder and the circle of wolves broke, moving slowly in among the rebels.  Finn pulled Poe to his feet again and backed away from a huge grey wolf with jagged white markings.  Commander D’Acy clapped a hand to her mouth to muffle a scream, but before she could, Rey interjected.

          “No, wait!” she hissed.  The Resistance might be about to panic, but to Rey, everything suddenly made sense.

          “The wolves are our ships,” she said, hurrying forward.  She worried for Rose and the droids but Leia was right: they had to move.  “He’s buying us time,” she said, pointing at Snow.  “Everyone, grab a wolf.  Chewie, help the General.”  Before they could object, she demonstrated, approaching the white Loth-wolf—who lowered itself so she could climb on. 

          “Are you serious?” Finn said,

          “Trust me,” Rey said.  “Trust in the Force.”

          He shook his head.  “But Rose might be hurt!” he insisted.  “And…and there’s not enough room!”

          “Then we’ll have to share.”  Poe clung drunkenly to Finn’s waist, still recovering from his shock from the talking wolf.  “I want to find Rose and BB-8 and Artoo—and even Threepio, but we gotta live, first.  And hey—this guy looks pretty sturdy.”  The grey Loth-wolf, standing rather menacingly over him and Finn, snorted so that  both men’s hair blew back.  Then it crouched.  Poe shrugged and climbed on. Grudgingly, Finn followed him.

          “I have the baddest of all bad feelings about this,” Finn said.  He scanned the field, the dragon, the wall of steadily advancing fire.  Rey could almost hear the cry of “Rose!” on his lips, but he stifled it and settled in behind Poe.  Both men clung, wobbling, to the fur and each other, scowling and shifting as the other Resistance members copied them.  Chewie would have looked comical, clinging to his wolf, if he hadn’t been so obviously singed and exhausted.  He lifted Leia up before him to share the largest of the wolves—a huge blondish beast with electric green eyes—

          And that was when the scream of TIE fighters sounded as the hovering Destroyer at last unleashed its fleet.

          Whatever spell Snow had woven between himself and the dragon broke as the TIEs came screaming from the sky.  The dragon keened and, at a knee from its mistress, took off, shooting straight into the air.

          “DANY!” Rey heard Snow cry out—a cry of terrified despair.  Incredibly, Rey felt an answering fear for the dragon as it climbed barely fast enough to avoid the TIEs.  She watched, breathless, from the back of the Loth-wolf, wilting in relief as the dragon blew past the machines. The leading TIE, more angular and tricked-out than the rest, swerved off course and gave chase to the escaping monster.

          Kylo, Rey knew.  He’d had some plan.  A plan to kill them all—but he couldn’t do it.  Should she feel hope or disgust for him?  And why was Snow racing towards her--

           “Run, run, run, run, run!” 

          The TIEs were closing. The Loth-wolf surged beneath her.  Snow’s weight settled behind her, all muscle and sweat.  Between the smell of the wolf and the smell of him, Rey swooned a little, but clung to her steed.  The Knight’s weight (if he was a Knight, though, somehow, she was starting to doubt it) pressed her flat and she thought she heard a faint, apologetic “I’m sorry.”  Then, somehow, he made the animal charge.  It bolted forward with the force of Rey’s old land-speeder.  The TIEs were left to adjust their throttle, whining in frustration, just out of range.

          Not for long, though, Rey knew.  She sensed the Resistance all around her.  Their dread and confusion as they clung to the wolves.  Loth-wolves couldn’t outrace TIEs.  There was no way—

          The Force suddenly opened before her.

          Kriffuck! Rey thought.  The surge was vast—as if the whole planet had exhaled.  She felt Snow’s heart through his ragged shirt, pounding into her back as he muttered strangely.

          “Old gods and new protect us all.  Mother, Maiden, Father, Crone…”

          Was he praying?  Or was this really magic?  The grass seemed to be growing over her head.  Green-grey stalks elongated like rising towers, spread cooling tendrils to block out the sun. The light dimmed and the angry pursuit of the TIEs faded, and still Snow chanted his strange incantation.

          “Mother protect us, Father give us strength, Warrior give us power, Smith give us might…”

          We’re sinking, Rey thought.  Wind rushed at her face.  The wolves called in triumph and haunting joy.

          “Maiden comfort us, Crone give us wisdom, Stranger…Stranger guide us to the other side…”

          His voice drifted over her, mingling with the wind, with the racing darkness as they vanished into the heart of Lothal.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

Afternoon found Tyrion crouched behind The Steadfast, vomiting into the grass beneath the lowered gangway.  He’d seen wonders—and terrors—beyond reason this morning, but, at this moment, he’d have traded them all for a book, bed, and oblivion. 

          His mind bulged with thoughts like an overfull wineskin.  He had flown through the stars in a steel ship!  He has seen the dark streaked with silver fire, seen the blue-green beauty of a whole world spread at his feet!

          He had also seen that world burn (or a tiny patch of it, anyway).  The sickening jolt of the past repeating itself accounted for half his misery.

          The other half was due to the thing Ser Kylo called “lightspeed,” but which Tyrion preferred to think of as “the Lurching Puke.” The beautiful visions he’d experienced came with a price, one he now struggled to keep from spattering on his shoes.

          “Oh gods,” he groaned as his stomach clenched again.  What came up was purple-grey and made him wretch even more.  He spilled his guts until absolutely nothing more was left, then collapsed into the grass with his head in his hands.  The grass was taller than he was, of course, and his palms felt cool on his sweating brow.  He wondered idly if he could sit here until The Steadfast departed.  No one would look for him.  He felt assured of that.  After what he’d seen on BB-39’s recording, his queen abandoning herself to lust and Kylo Ren, after Daenerys’s empty look when he’d gone to plead with her this morning (gently, tactfully, so as not to give himself away,) after that he felt as useless and accursed as some child-robber packed off to the Wall.  (Such things still happened in Westeros.  The Wall was still “defended” by the wretched of the earth.  Without the threat of Walkers or Wildlings, however, the Watch was less The Shield That Guards the Realms of Men than The Hammer That Repairs Old Forts.)

          I’m worse than a teenage robber, though, Tyrion thought.  At least a robber has accomplished a task.  By his accounting, the only thing Tyrion Lannister had accomplished lately was to retain his sanity by a thread.

          He sighed.

          “No.  No one will look for me…”

          A beeping interrupted him.

          “No one I want to be found by, anyway.”

          BB-39, rolling towards him through the grass, blatted at him reproachfully.   The droid was right: Tyrion ought to have been more respectful. The little creature had done everything he’d wanted, after all: recording Daenerys with Ser Kylo, unearthing vintage bottles of wine.  Several had been needed after Tyrion’s viewing.  Now he could barely stand the sight of the droid.

          And as for the man who followed it….

          Tyrion shot to his feet in fear.

          “As you were, dwarf,” Hataska Ren burbled, his stick-like legs whisking through the grass.  The warrior’s movements always put Tyrion in mind of a spider.  Not a pleasant human spider, like Varys, either.  This Knight picked his way delicately through the world, light on his feet, stooped just slightly, like an aging man.  Of course, you’d be mad to take that stoop as a sign of weakness or (the more Tyrion considered him) proof of humanity.  The fellow spent an inordinate amount of time in a water chamber—a thing of glass and metal of his own construction.  He claimed this was to counter the effects of “gravity,” but Tyrion would not have been surprised to find the man hiding gills.  His armor always glistened as if he’d been rained on, and his wet footprints helped contribute to the perpetual carpet of mud that trailed the Knights.  Like the red priestesses whose company Hataska favored there was something off about the man. Tyrion had yet to see the face beneath the helmet and rather hoped the moment would be permanently delayed.

          “My Lord Hataska!”  Tyrion forced a grin and did his best to wipe his beard.  He’d been an expert vomiter even before this galaxy and was relieved to find beard, clothes, and shoes unharmed.  Now if he could only survive the headache—

          “A gift.” Hataska Ren held out a glowing vial.

          Instinctively, Tyrion backed away.  The thing was beautiful, but its sparkling light came from magic. Knights of Ren magic, if Tyrion had to guess.  Not his favorite flavor of the kind.

          Through the featureless face-plate the Knight laughed (a stuttering hiss of warm amusement) and shook his head.

          “It’s nothing to fear, little man,” he said.  “I thought it might help you with your problem.”

          “Problem?”  Tyrion had so many problems.  Did Hataska mean his nausea?  His pining for Daenerys?  The fact that the fate of two universes rode on his shoulders?

          “Lightspeed sickness.”  The vial shimmered a soft violet color.  “I drink it always,” Hataska explained.  “Before and after.  Whenever I know there’ll be a jump.”  He waggled the vial like a mother trying to tempt her stubborn child.  The pounding in Tyrion’s head increased—yet he wanted nothing from this man.

          “Why would you help me?” he demanded.  “I’m not exactly friends with the man you serve.”

          “I serve the Ren,” Hataska said.  “It is allied with you--even if its avatar is not.  Drink this so that you may serve it well.”  Again, the vial glittered in the sun.

          Tyrion winced.  Fuck but his head hurt.  Still: the shivers in his soul!  The way Hataska spoke of “the Ren” was the same way Ser Kylo spoke of “the Force” or “the Dark Side.”  All were separate entities, but “the Ren” seemed, by far, the more suspicious.

          “Oh fuck it,” Tyrion mumbled.  He seized the vial and, one tasteless-but-soothing swallow later, felt his nausea depart. 

          Which was good, because at that exact moment, a thumping of feet that would have split his head apart pounded down the gangplank.

          “ASSEMBLE!” a familiar voice sounded. 

          Tyrion rolled his eyes.  It was General Hux.

###

Tyrion had met the general only that morning, but that was more than long enough to form an opinion.  Two minutes standing in that tall, orange-haired presence conjured up some fondly remembered words from Bronn. 

          “Once a cunt, always a cunt,” the sellsword had said—a referendum on Tyrion’s nephew, Joffrey.  Joffrey would have eaten Hux for breakfast, but that didn’t make Bronn’s words any less true.  The poor excuse for a bully had ogled Daenerys, sneered at Tyrion, and almost wet himself at the sight of Drogon.  Ser Kylo he deferred to with a malice so transparent it was a wonder the Supreme Leader didn’t slay him on the spot.  Most likely, Tyrion had thought, watching their interaction, Kylo, Daenerys, and the dragon facing Hux in The Steadfast’s magnificent hangar bay, Ser Kylo knew how weak Hux was, and decided to let him go on deluding himself about his power.  Someday, he would shatter the illusion in the most humiliating, soul destroying way possible, but, until then, he let Hux foam and spit and glower—and lead pointless expeditions to recover survivors from Drogon’s rampage.

          Just before he’d led a TIE squadron after Daenerys (and promptly abandoned it to follow her when she fled east) Ser Kylo had screamed that the “rebels” had “vanished,” leaving Hux no reason to form a search party.  But he had, and now, to Tyrion’s surprise, it seemed the endeavor had yielded something useful.  As the white-armored Stormtroopers, combing the burned remains of the Resistance base these last hours, formed up before Hux’s post on the gangway, a furious protestation was heard—and a clutch of prisoners appeared, herded along at weapon point.

          “You!” Hux snarled.

          Tyrion tiptoed out from under the gangway and the blessed shade on the underside of the transport ship.  This planet was lovely but summertime hot, the temperature not improved by its encounter with the dragon.  He heard Hataska and BB-39 follow him as he pushed through the grass to get a side-view of the gangway.  A couple Stormtroopers turned to look at him, their posture expressing smugness at his stature, but Hataska’s presence soon had them training their weapons on Hux’s prisoners with a single-minded concentration.

          Curious bunch of captives, Tyrion thought.  The girl was small and round-faced, clad in mannish “coveralls,” with pockets like a carpenter’s apron. Her only companions were a trio of droids, one close kin to the protocol droid Tyrion knew from Mustafar.  This specimen had a much friendlier head and was plated in gold like Lannister armor.  Tyrion’s late father would have loved it, never mind that it was talking to itself.

          “Oh dear, oh dear…” it said worriedly.  Not at all like the insect on Mustafar.  Beside it, a blue-and-white droid (Tyrion had heard them called “astromechs”) rocked back and forth on two strut-like legs.

          The third droid was another rolling ball, painted a cheerful white and orange.  BB-39, lurking at Tyrion’s back, loosed a stream of low and hostile gurgles.

          “Shhh,” Tyrion warned.  He needed to pay attention.  The girl and the droids were from the Resistance.  They probably knew where the others had gone—they might even know the location of Jon Snow.

          He was here.  Tyrion would have known it even without Ser Kylo’s ranting.  (The presence of “Snow” was what had sent the Supreme Leader dashing for his TIE fighter.)  It was a feeling Tyrion had.  No way to explain it.  Kylo’s unnamed half

          (Wolf and Sun)

had been down here too. 

          “Yes, me!” The Resistance-girl’s voice brought Tyrion around.  “Congratulations.  We’re the only ones left!” 

          “Nice try,” Hux snarled.  “But you Resistance are like vermin.  Where there’s one of you, there’s a hundred.  If you think to make me a fool--”

          “You do that fine on your own,” the girl snapped. 

          A few of the Stormtroopers stifled laughs.  Hux turned purple.  Tyrion decided he liked the girl.  A wave of anger took him as, at a nod from Hux, someone kicked her legs out from under her.

          “Oh dear, oh dear…” the golden droid repeated.  The girl braced herself on the ground, panting.

          “Deactivate these droids,” Hux barked.  “I’ll execute this traitor myself.”

          “I’m not a traitor, idiot,” the girl said.  Manacled, streaked with dirt and ash, she managed a smiled. “I’d have to be part of your Order to be a traitor,” she explained.  “But I’m Resistance, born and bred.”

          “You’re scum,” Hux unholstered his blaster and aimed it at her as his men moved on the droids.

          He really is a moron, Tyrion thought.  Then he stumped forward, motioning Hataska Ren to follow. 

          The standoff instantly withered away, all eyes turning towards the sinister Knight.  BB-39 brandished an electrified torch arm, sending off a few painful-sounding jolts.  (“Electricity,” Tyrion reminded himself.  His new vocabulary was as bad as his Valyrian.)

          “Now, now, General!” he called.  “I don’t think our lord and lady would approve of this.”

          “Stay out of this, dwarf,” Hux said.  “I take no orders from you.”

          “But you do take orders from the Supreme Leader,” Tyrion said.  “And his wishes are currently those of my queen.  I’m not sure how it works in your world, but in mine, we get information from our captives before we kill them.”  He paused, hating how cold he must seem, then continued: “Do you think Ser Kylo will let you talk before he blasts you?”

          “My Lord of Ren prefers crushing to blasting,” Hataska Ren confided—just loud enough for Hux to hear.  “General Hux is aware of this.  Or he should be.  By now.”

          Hux’s gloved hand flew to his collar as if in remembrance of throttlings past.  After a moment of furious grimacing, he recovered himself enough to give a new set of orders.

          “Fine,” he said.  A vein pulsed near his hairline.  “Switch the droids off and throw this scum cell.  We’ll get the interrogators working on her—”

          “No,” Tyrion said calmly.  “Not until Daenerys and Ser Kylo return.” 

          “WHAT?” Hux was livid.

          “Look around you.”  Tyrion indicated the field.  The smoking earth and trampled grass where Drogon had landed. The place where Jon had stood, touching the dragon’s muzzle, before vanishing with the Resistance to the cries of giant wolves.  “Some very strange things are going on here,” he pointed out.  “Our rulers will have pointed questions.”

          “And rituals,” said Hataska Ren ominously.

          No one had any response to that.  Tyrion nodded, maintaining his callous façade—and prayed Hataska was just helping him play for time.  What no one knew was that Daenerys, with her wild, uncertain heart, might go missing for days on end.  Long enough, Tyrion hoped, that he could find a way question this rebel-girl and learn the location of Jon Snow. 

          The fate of two realities collide, the Oracle had told him.  The balance must be restored to each…Knight and Dragon.  Wolf and Sun. 

          Tyrion had played the darkness long enough.  Time to shed light on this situation. 

          “Well let’s get out of this heat, anyway,” he said.  “Lead on, General Hux.  You have things well in hand.”  The rebel-girl gave him a suspicious look as a pair of Troopers raised her to her feet. 

          “It’s okay,” Tyrion heard her whisper to her droids. Her dark eyes—fierce and curious--never left him. 

          Good, Tyrion thought.  Hux shouted and blustered and the girl ignored him completely, and Tyrion liked her even more.  He gave BB-39 a surreptitious kick as the stupid ball tried to zap its oranger, happier cousin.

          “None of that,” he said out the side of his mouth.  “We’re going to need the girl to trust us.”

          BB-39 chirped incredulously—but Hataska Ren only laughed in seeming approval.

          “You’re a shrewd one, Lannister,” he said.  “I see why the Ren chose you for this task.”

          Tyrion watched the prisoners vanish up the gangway.  The transport ship’s engines began to whir.

          “What is this ‘Ren’ of yours, anyway?” he inquired.  He didn’t expect a coherent response.

          “The Ren is its own,” Hataska said.  “Some say it’s Chaos or untamed power.”

          “What do you say?” Tyrion probed.

          “I’d say that the Ren is the death of the old.” 

          Somehow, despite the faceless helmet, Tyrion knew the Knight was smiling.

          “I’d say,” Hataska continued, “the Ren is you now.  Yours, Lannister.  So lead us on.”

Chapter Text

Kylo

The hill was an island in a vast green sea.  Kylo stood on the crest of it, regarding the dragon.

          Behind him, a trail of burn marks led from his TIE fighter, scoring a crisscross pattern up the rocky slope.  He still held the saber at his side, its seething and crackling giving vent to his rage.  Not for Daenerys.  His rage was for Snow, whose sudden appearance, wielding a Sith lightsaber of all things, had touched off the queen’s flight.  It had been hours since then.  Hours chasing Drogon through storm clouds, losing and finding the beast as he wondered: should he go back?  He’d felt Rey’s Force signature vanish the moment he turned his TIE.  Just like his mother’s.  Just like Snow’s.  They were all together now, somewhere on Lothal.  Rey and Snow.  Together.  Heroes of Light.  He wondered if the Light half of Palpatine’s puzzle would fit together as deliciously as the Dark.

          Shut up you kriffing idiot.  He ground the hilt of the saber in his palm.  This morning he’d been sure he could kill the Last Jedi. Now he felt a sense of helplessness bordering on despair.  When he’d seen her, felt her cheek (cold from spring water) on his, he’d been defenseless and mockable Ben Solo again.  The same pitiful child who’d longed for his mother, who’d watched his father run off and his uncle turn away.  He’d worn so many masks and disguises since then: Knight of Ren, Snoke’s apprentice, Supreme Leader—but one word from Rey stripped him naked and raw, devoid of all sense and all defenses.

          You had to gloat, didn’t you? an inner voice taunted.  It felt like an admonishment his father would have handed down. 

          You don’t understand, he told it. I wanted her to die hurting.

          But hurt was a blade that could cut two ways.

          The wind pulled through his hair and whipped at his clothing.  The edge of his cloak stung, lashing about his knees.  There was something charged and mocking in the air, something he didn’t think he’d brought with him.  Maybe it was Lothal itself.  So strong in the Force.  So sure of its convictions.  So many of its animals were one with the Force—the Loth-wolves and Loth-cats—so why not the wind?

          Kylo allowed it to annoy him a further two minutes before he used his own Force-power to leap down the face of the hill.  He hurtled outwards, blessedly weightless for a moment, before he landed mid-slope and skidded smoothly the rest of the way.  Loose dirt and scree crumbled away beneath his boots, his cloak billowing out behind him like his own pair of wings. He loved flying.  Would take it in all its forms.  Even from the beast who reared its head to regard him.

          Insects chirred as Kylo pushed through the grass.  The dragon’s back was to him, smoke rising from its nostrils.  Though its head was raised, watching him, the batlike wings were curved before it, enclosing Daenerys, her silhouette a blur through one red-tinged membrane.  The settling light was just bright enough for Kylo to distinguish her bowed head.  The dragon hissed—and Kylo halted out of reach of its tail. Then the beast drew back its wings and Daenerys was there.

          “Is that for me?” Her nod indicated his saber.  Its red light played on the planes of her face.  She was beautiful and terrible to behold—but her salt-streaked cheeks revealed that she’d been weeping.

          “No.” Kylo switched the saber off and hung it on his belt in one seamless motion.  The light extinguished, and with it, his wrath.  He felt empty.  Hollowed by the wind.

          Daenerys raised her chin as if in defiance.  “I couldn’t kill him.  He murdered me and I couldn’t…”  She bit her lip.  Kylo found himself nodding.

          “I couldn’t kill her either,” he said.

          She laughed. A short sound that prickled his skin.  He realized he’d never heard her make it before.  It was warm.  Rueful.  Not quite mirth.  It drove the chasm in his heart a little wider.  Not because he loved her, but because he knew her.

          She is me and I am her.  The tarnished side of a magical coin.  Rey and Snow would be the shining side.  Two lights, two darks.  One Emperor.

          That’s how he plans to bind the worlds together, Kylo thought.  Somehow, the four “heroes” as he called them, were the key.  Both were dyads.  Two who were one.  Across universes and realities.

          “Essence…” he whispered.

          Daenerys frowned. 

          “You and me,” Kylo said.  “Snow and the girl.  We’re all at the center of our worlds’ conflicts.  Darkness and Light.  Ice and Fire.  We’re how those conflicts express themselves.”  Now he laughed.  This was arrogance in the extreme.  He was a powerful servant of Darkness but was he Darkness’s avatar?  It was the sort of thinking Palpatine would have gone for—or holier-than-thou Jedis like Skywalker and Yoda.  But arrogant—ridiculous—as it was, it was surely what Palpatine believed.

          Daenerys’s dragon, as if bored, lowered its head to sniff the grass.  Its defensive posture had eased, mirroring that of its mistress.

          “Where does that leave us?” she asked.  The fire and rage had gone out of her too.  “I can’t kill Jon.  I’m being drawn to him.  I feel it, don’t you?  A call…”  She struggled to find the words.

          “A call to the Light,” Kylo finished for her.  “The Force, and Palpatine, aren’t giving us a choice.”

          “Or maybe our hearts aren’t,” she said softly.  A disbelieving smile broke across her face.  “Maybe I am mad,” she said, looking skyward.  “Why would I go to the man who put a knife in my heart?”

          Kylo shook his head.  He felt similarly about Rey.  The girl from nowhere who had detonated his life. Nobody.  Nothing.  But so bright with power.  His indisputable equal in every way.  She’d given him scars, refused his offers, shut him out of their connection.  (Snoke had claimed he’d connected them, but the bond had long outlived its “maker.”  It seemed more likely Snoke had merely taken credit for something that already existed.)  In the two years since Kylo had first touched her mind and felt the loneliness inside her like a mirror of his own, she’d been a part of him like his skin or his breath, and just as impossible to excise.

          Go to her.  The winds seemed to whisper.  The longing of his heart made audible.

          Go to her.  Go to them.  Find them both and bring them to me.

          Suddenly, Drogon’s head shot up.

          “Oh no,” Kylo breathed.

          He’d sensed it too late. 

          An awful chuckling rolled over him as Drogon screamed in fury beside him.

Daenerys had gone to her knees in the grass.  Her eyes widened.  She heard the voice too.  She recognized it.

          Good! laughed the voice on the wind.  You take so long to catch on, my foolish young pupils!

          “SHOW YOURSELF!”  Kylo reignited his saber, thin gray ghosts rising where it touched the grass.  His throat began to itch with the smell of smoke, his head to pound from the dragon’s roars.  Daenerys reached a hand towards Drogon as if to comfort the beast she believed to be her child.  It moved to her, crouching low, extending its wings above her in a threatening canopy.

          Good! Goooooood! Palpatine crooned.  Magnificent beast!  Together we shall rule a thousand years.

          Like Kylo, Daenerys was trying to locate the voice. “DROGON WILL NEVER BE YOURS!” she screamed.

          Oh, but he will.  As will you all.

          “Come out,” Kylo growled.  “You can’t, can you? You’re too old.  Too weak”

          Am I now?  The voice seemed amused.

          “That’s why you need us.”  As Kylor spoke he had a sudden horrid vision: a decades-old corpse, hooded and rotting, grinning down from a jagged throne. Streaks of light were pouring into it while a jewel-red sun bore down from the sky…

          He flipped sweat-drenched hair from his eyes. Vampire! he thought, wildly. The kriffing bastard wants to drain us!

          Another burst of laughter staggered him—and the brief stench of something escaped from its grave.

          So clever, young Solo, Palpatine mocked.  So sure of yourself like your father before you. But you have only begun to comprehend—and I fear my patience has worn thin.  Since you make no haste towards Exegol I must demonstrate the consequences of your dis-o-be-di-ence!

          The Emperor wrung every syllable from that last word, his voice swelling monstrously in Kylo’s head.  Instinctively, Kylo tried to cover his ears, then yelped and dropped his saber as the sparking cross-guard singed his ear.

          COME TO ME! the voice ordered.  COME TO ME NOW!  MOTHER OF DRAGONS!  LORD OF REN!

          Daenerys was screaming, holding her head.  The dragon loosed a huge jet of flame at the sky.  Burning cinders caught the wind and blew back, stinging.

          Then they were alone again.

          A blessed evening silence descended.  The wind flapped but it was just wind, untainted by Force or Darkside.  Kylo couldn’t decide if Palpatine had caused it, or simply used the mysterious currents of Lothal for his own amusement.  Amusement was exactly what it was.  The Emperor toyed with them.  Prodding.  Taunting.  He’d laid a trap on Exegol and was eager to herd them into it.  Everyone.  Snow.  Daenerys.  Rey.

          Kylo found his saber and quenched it before it could set the grass alight.  He moved instinctively towards Daenerys, but for an instant he stretched out, his minf searching for her. 

          Nothing.  The planet had swallowed the lightsiders.  Or maybe it was protecting them.  Kylo had a feeling that only he and Daenerys had been privy to Palpatine’s little visit.

          Because we’re tainted, he thought bitterly, throwing himself down beside the queen.  She had swooned, just a little, tears beading her lashes as she rubbed at her temples with a black-gloved hand.  It struck Kylo that she was dressed like he was.   She had to wear protective leathers to grasp the dragon. The droids on Mustafar had worked up something like his own armor for her.  Not quilted, but perfectly tailored to evoke intimidation and grace.  Her collar curled slightly up at the neck, suggesting dragon horns, or wings….

          Drogon curled his wings around them, his hot, sulferous breath huffing near Kylo’s ear.  A week ago he would have pissed himself.  But these last few moments had made the beast accept him.  

          “Daenerys?” He shook her slightly, just enough to rouse her.  Her fingers grasped his doublet and held on.

          “He was in my head,” she whispered.  “He said that I would burn them all.”  Her scarlet eyes brimmed with tears.  “He said that I would like it, this time…”

          “That’s his pitch,” Kylo muttered.  He knew the script by heart.  It had cursed his family for generations.

          As he searched for something more useful to say, the com he usually wore concealed up his sleeve snapped to life.  High-pitched static crackled over the grasslands before resolving into Hux’s familiar mad bark.

          “Ren?” Hux demanded.  “Ren?  Are you there?”

          Kylo considered trying to strangle him from a distance.

          “This is the Supreme Leader—” he growled into the com. But amazingly, the cowardly Hux cut him off.

          “I don’t care if you’re Jabba the Hutt!” the com screamed.  “Get back to the Steadfast.  Get back here NOW!”

          The com went dead. As Kylo raised his eyes to Daenerys, the fading static mingled with a last burst of ghostly laughter.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The pneumatic door of the cell swished open and something red and metallic struck the frame above Tyrion’s head.  He straightened from his crouch to find the Resistance-girl facing him, brandishing what looked like…

          “Is that an arm?” Tyrion asked.

          The girl only grunted, frozen in place, her feet lifted a span off the prison floor.  Hataska Ren, lingering behind Tyrion in the hallway made a lazy tutting motion.  If the girl’s muscles hadn’t been compressed, Tyrion was sure she’d have sworn to shame a Fleabottom whore.

          “Oh no! Mistress Rose!”  The golden droid reached out, revealing that only one of its arms was attached.  This was what the girl—Rose—clenched in her hand.  This object she’d tried to use as a bludgeon.  Tyrion hadn’t noticed that the golden droid was unfinished.  The detached arm was rusty red instead of gold.  Whatever color it was, it had missed.  Rose might have split Tyrion’s skull with it—but she’d anticipated a taller man.

          Thank the Seven, Tyrion thought.  It wasn’t often he felt lucky to be a dwarf.

          “Enough of that now,” Hataska Ren cautioned.  The two shorter droids were chiming with agitation.  The blue-and-white rocked in front of the golden one like a squire prepared to defend its knight.  It would have done better, Tyrion thought, to have paid more attention to the Knight of Ren.  Hataska soon had all four of the cell’s occupants suspended, the Force holding them above the floor.

          BB-39, who’d insisted on following Tyrion, released something disturbingly like a chuckle. 

          “You’re not helping,” Tyrion told it.  Then: “All right, Ser Hataska.  Put them down.”

          “I’ll be outside,” Hataska burbled.  “Harm this man,” he told the prisoners, “and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”  He waved his black-gloved hand and the prisoners dropped.  The doors swicked shut, leaving Tyrion alone.  (He didn’t count BB-39.  The ill-tempered little ball was beginning to feel like his shadow.)

          “What is this?” Rose said. She backed away from Tyrion but continued to scan the room.  Looking for another way out. Nothing in her bearing suggested surrender.

          “How’d you get the arm off?” Tyrion asked.

          She blinked.  “What?”

          “The arm.”  Tyrion nodded at the golden droid.  “Why didn’t anyone finish painting him, anyway?”

          “Oh!” the droid exclaimed.  “That is a long and interesting story!”

          “Shut it, Threepio!” Rose turned on the droid with a look of panicked exasperation.  “We don’t talk to the First Order.  Not about your arm—or anything!” 

          “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not First Order then,” Tyrion said.  “In fact, between you and me and these droids, I don’t much care for it at all.”

          “Bantha pudu.” Rose folded her arms.  “If you’re not their prisoner, you’re on their side.”

          “Or perhaps,” Tyrion said, deciding on truth, “I just wound up on their side after blundering my way through a magical portal.  Those are a bit of a thing these days.  I happened to come out on a place called Mustafar.  Not my cup of tea, either. But the woman I once killed was there, so I thought I’d try and make it up to her.  Oh.  Have I got your attention now?  Maybe now you’ll tell me about that one’s arm?”  He nodded again at the golden droid, but it was the girl he focused on.  Her mouth had dropped open.

          “Why…do you want to know…about the arm?” she said, gathering her thoughts as the sentence progressed.

          Tyrion shrugged.  “If you got it off our golden fellow without tools, I think you’re probably a useful person to have around.”

          “It was I who unscrewed the arm,” the golden droid said primly.  He sighed. “If you’re going to banter, Mistress Rose, might I have it back?”

          Rose didn’t look at him.

          “Yeah.  Uh-huh Threepio.  Beebee-Ate, why don’t you give him a hand?”

          “Hmph.  Literally,” Threepio sniffed—but he accepted the arm when the orange-and-white ball picked it up.  “Beebee-Ate” had grabbing appendages—and a cheerful air Tyrion preferred to BB-39.

          “You said ‘portal,’” Rose folded her arms.

          Tyrion nodded.  “That’s how my friend came through as well.  Perhaps you know him?  Jon Snow?”       

           “The man Rey’s looking for--?”  She stopped herself.

          “Who’s Rey?” Tyrion asked, though he had a guess.

          “The Last Jedi.”  Rose said.  “The girl who’s going to kick your ass.”

          “I once brought a jackass and a honeycomb into a brothel…” Tyrion muttered.

          “What?”

          “Not important.  So.  This Rey is the Sun in the Emperor’s prophecy?”

          Rose scowled.  “That’s not what he told us.’”

          “No,” Tyrion said.  “That’s what the Oracle told me.”

          “Oracle?”

          “Of Webbish-Bog.  I told you: I hated Mustafar.  This Oracle told me about the

Wolf and Sun, and the Knight and Dragon who are needed to restore the balance between two worlds.  If your Rey is the Sun, she’s the light side of your world, just as Jon Snow was the light side of mine.”

          “Which makes Kylo Ren and whoever was riding that dragon honorary members of the Darkside.  Which means you work for them and I’m not talking to you.”

          She made as if to turn her back, but BB-8 chirped something, and she paused. 

          “Why should I believe that?” she asked the droid.

          BB-8 beeped again.

          Rose sighed.  “He thinks he heard you say Jon Snow is your friend.”

          “He was,” Tyrion said.  “So was the dragon rider.  The three of us were quite good friends, until Palpatine.  Not that things were going particularly well for us, but without Palpatine I think less people might have died.  As it happened, Daenerys burned thousands of people and I had to convince Jon Snow, to kill her.”

          “You killed your friend?”  Rose was aghast.  “You killed your friend with another friend?  Wait.  Was that a…a dead person riding that thing?”  Rose clutched her throat in horror. 

          “A dead woman,” Tyrion clarified.  “Mysteriously made alive again.  She was a queen, in my world.  I loved her. Jon Snow loved her too.”

          “And you killed her?”

          “I killed what she became,” Tyrion said.  “I killed what Palpatine made of her.  Now Jon and I have been given a second chance.  An exceedingly strange one, I grant you, but who can turn down redemption?  If I can find Jon, he might be able to bring Daenerys to our side.  I think he was trying to do that today.  Surely Kylo Ren isn’t going to save her.  If I can’t tear her away from him this galaxy of yours will burn.”

          Rose groaned.  “As opposed to freezing to death under the Emperor…”

          “Winter is coming,” Tyrion shrugged.

          Rose examined him shrewdly, seeming to see him for the first time.  “So, you want to steal Kylo Ren’s girlfriend, using her boyfriend—the one you convinced to murder her—and you think that I can help you do this?”

          “You’re with the Resistance,” Tyrion said.  “I sense that’s where Jon is, now.”

          “You sound like Finn,” Rose said.  (And, to his unspoken question:) “My boyfriend.  Who would never murder me.”

          “Well…good.”  Tyrion felt his embarrassment burning in his cheeks.

          Rose gave another sigh. “This is insane,” she muttered.  “I mean, we didn’t really have a contingency plan for dragons—or Loth-wolves who vanish into thin air…”

          “You saw that?” Tyrion asked.

          “I had a good view from the rubble.  I actually owe Hux’s men for pulling me out.”  She shuddered.  Stared into space a moment.  Then seemed to come to a decision.

          “We need an untraceable transport,” she said.  “Any idea where these Order goons park their skiffs?”

          “I can find out,” Tyrion said.

          “Do it,” Rose said.  “And find me a wrench.”

###

Back in the hallway, Tyrion leaned against the door. 

          “Do you know what ‘hyrdospanners’ are?” he asked Hataska Ren.

          The Knight, so thin and dark he might have been a wall-seam, only nodded in placid affirmation.

          At Tyrion’s heels, BB-39 grumbled.  “I know you don’t like them,” Tyrion said.  “But then, you don’t want to be deactivated.”  The droid vibrated with repressed fury for a moment, then loosed a long and put-upon sigh.  It chirped something Tyrion interpreted as acquiescence.  Fine.  I’ll be good.  For now.

          “That’s the spirit!”  Tyrion patted its head.

          Meanwhile, an ominous silence wreathed Hataska.  The Knight stood with his head tilted slightly upward as if the ceiling were speaking to him.

          “Something wrong?” Tyrion began—but then the Knight convulsed.  Tyrion felt a sudden chill.

          “He speaks….,” Hataska said.  Tyrion was sure that, behind the face mask, the fellow’s teeth were chattering.  His own teeth champed like racing coursers.  He could have been standing on the shores of Webbish-Bog.

          Oh no, he thought, realizing.  Oh, no!

          He began to run, Hataska and the droid on his heels.

###

He burst onto the bridge of the Star Destroyer to find Daenerys and Kylo already arrived.  Hux and his deplorables stood across from them on the other side of a view console, their faces tight with horror. 

          Tyrion waddled up beside Daenerys in time to catch the last words of a fuzzy transmission.  The man in the hologram looked like First Order—same deadly boring uniform and strange, triangular cap—but blood poured down one side of his face and his voice was muffled by the pew of blaster fire.

          “…is down!” Tyrion heard.  “I’ve taken command, but we can’t…Blasters have no effect...  They just get up and walk again and—no!  NOOO!”

          A pale shape shuffled into view.  The holo rippled and fragmented, but the sound sharpened a moment.  Tyrion’s stomach shriveled to a stone as his hearing transported him back to the Long Night.  To the helpless screams and ripping flesh he’d thought never to hear again outside his nightmares.   The only thing different was the blaster fire.

          Should have been swords, he thought.  We used swords last time.

          The screams ended and the picture stabilized. For a moment the view showed featureless steel wall. 

          Then a face moved in to fill the screen.  It might have been the First Order soldier—or it might have been what killed him.  Either way, its eyes glowed searing blue in the instant before the transmission cut off.

          “It came from Naboo,” Hux said.

          Beside Tyrion Daenerys trembled.  He almost envied her Ser Kylo’s sturdy protection.  The Supreme Leader glared with the same brooding intensity he used to glare at everything else, but an extra peakiness crept across his features.  He saw what they’d all seen—but he understood it more.

          “Theed?” he asked.

          Hux shook his head.  “The far north.  And that’s not all.  Lieutenant?”

          A younger, equally freckled toady clicked his heels and hit a button on the console.

          “This was recorded just before the incident,” he said.  On the holo, a huge ship appeared, jumping into existence above a stretch of grassy mountains.  Even Hataska Ren made a disturbed noise.  It was a Star Destroyer but much, much bigger than the Steadfast.

          “A planet killer,” Hux hissed—mostly at Kylo, as if this were somehow Ren’s fault.  “Jumped out of the Unknown Regions to hang in atmo—exactly as we’re doing now.”

          “A planet killer wouldn’t do that,” Ser Kylo said.  But he wasn’t arguing.  His tone was mystified.

          “It would,” Hux said, “if it had another way of killing.”  The view on the holo pressed closer, capturing a smaller ship, hurtling down.  “Whatever annihilated our garrison came in that.  That transport dropped something.  Half an hour later we get the transmission.” The “Planet Killer” disappeared with his nod.  The freckled toady killed the holo.

          “I know what did it,” Daenerys said.

          Everyone turned to look at her.  Hours earlier, Tyrion had seen lust in their faces.  Now half the Ordermen looked to her as they might have to their mothers.  Explain! their (mostly pale) faces said. For the night is dark and full of terrors!

          Daenerys ignored them and turned to Kylo.

          “He said he would punish us,” she said.

          The hairs rose on Tyrion’s neck as he realized who she must be talking about.  But then he’d felt it too.  What did Hataska call it?  A disturbance in the Force?

          “I know what did it too,” he said, feeling an urge to be useful.  “This is a demonstration, is it?  By Palpatine?”

          “He’s brought them back,” Daenerys said.  “The White Walkers.”

          “And unleashed them on my ancestral home.”  Ser Kylo bared his teeth.  “He’s going to turn the entire planet to winter.  Turn everyone on it into one of those things.”

          “I’ll transmit evacuation orders,” Hux shrilled.  Sickly grey sweat poured down his face.  “We have thousands of men there--”

          “And millions of women and children.”  Daenerys pressed closer to Kylo Ren.  Some unspoken communication passed between them, her red eyes shining as they met his own.

          Tyrion’s heart sank.  How well he knew that expression.  Not only on her face, but on Ren’s.  Any number of knights and queens and warriors had donned it: that grim, determined mask that meant their honor must be avenged. They’re going to fight the Walkers, he thought.  They’re going to jump this gods-be-damned ship to “Naboo.”  Gods only knew how far away that was.  There went his chance of his escaping with Rose.  Of finding Jon and reuniting him with their queen.  By now he knew how swift this world could move.  The Order could be on their way in moments. 

          “My lady, my lord,” he pushed forward, nearly pressing himself against Deanery’s leg.  He wished he could wrap himself around it—not in lewdness, but to shake her back to herself.  “Think about this a moment.  I too know what we face.  This is obviously a ploy to trap you both--”

          “Yes,” Ser Kylo said.  “And?”

          “He needs us alive, Tyrion.”  Daenerys didn’t look at him.  “He can’t kill us.  But we can hurt him.”

          “What good will that do?” Tyrion began to argue, but he could see her shutting him out again.  She was still bound to Ren and whatever agenda fate had dreamed for them—and now they’d go hurtling towards it, fire and blood and vengeance once more.

          “We need to think about this,” he pleaded.

          But his queen shook her head.

          “No,” she said. “We need dragons.”

Chapter Text

Rey

It was the strangest journey Rey had ever taken.  More unnerving that her first flight on the Falcon.  More mysterious than the climb up the slopes of Ach-to Island.  She felt herself moving forward at a tremendous rate, and at the same time she hovered, motionless, in liminal space.  She smelled the coarse fur of the wolf beneath her and the unwashed scent of Snow pressed against her back—but she smelled too the cool air of the Void: a windy scent as if someone had left the doors open between worlds.

          It went on and on for a very long time.  Then she found herself in a tunnel. 

          The world reasserted itself: gravity and motion and the smell of earth.  Rocky walls pressed around her as if they’d been there all-the-while.  She heard her fellow Resistance members gasping for breath, and the scrape of claws as the wolves loped forward.  Daylight blossomed—colder and paler than it had been—and she shivered as the rocky tunnel opened into a natural chamber.  High above them, a natural skylight in the ochre-colored rock gave the wide, circular space illumination.  A few objects were placed neatly about: a bedroll, a few bundles, a pile of sticks and dried grass.  Lothal didn’t have much in the way of trees, but there were plenty of spiky bushes you could use to make fire.  So this was where Jon Snow had lived.  Here in this cave.  With the wolves.  Alone.

          Not so alone now, Rey thought.  Snow’s new pack was dismounting from the old.  Finn and Poe struggled awkwardly off their wolf, then went to help Leia and Chewie, both of whom looked visibly drained.  Soon a group of shivering humans ringed the chamber, watching as the Loth-wolves departed through another tunnel.

          “Whoa, whoa wait!” Poe protested.  “They’re just taking off?”  He peered after the animals as if hoping to discover what sort of wormhole they were using.  “We could use a few furry…things to huddle with.  This place is colder than a Wampa lair.”

          “It’s winter on this side of the planet,” Snow said.  He’d already dismounted from the pack leader, leaving Rey, alone of everyone, something warm to cling to.  Reluctantly, she clambered down—and only then remembered she’d dropped her shoes.

          Oh kriff.  Her teeth began to chatter. 

          “I’ll start a fire.”  Snow turned and went to poke at a stone-ringed firepit he’d constructed under the skylight.  The white Loth-wolf leader moved off—but paused at Rey’s incredulous shout.

          “Oi!” she said.  “This can’t be it! What are we supposed to do now?”

          “Listen,” said the wolf aloud. By the time the shock wore off, the beast was gone.

          “Talking wolves!” Poe shrilled.

          “And dragons,” Finn scowled at Snow’s back.  Rey knew he was thinking back to the clearing and the strange communion Snow had engaged in. 

          “No.  The dragon didn’t talk…did it?” Poe could hardly be blamed for his confusion.

          Finn ignored him.  He scowled, arms folded, as Snow straightened from lighting the fire.  Around the chamber, huddled in a few pitiful knots, the remainder of the Resistance copied him.

          Their suspicion wasn’t lost on Snow.  He squared his shoulders as he faced them and pulled himself to full height.  He wasn’t a tall man, but his presence made up for it.  Solemn and dignified—and not a little chagrinned.

          “I’m sure you all have questions,” he said, favoring each member of his audience in turn.  His voice filled the silence effortlessly, the same way Leia’s could even in her weariest hour.

          “Questions?” Poe said drily. “Us?”

          “I’ll do my best to answer them,” Snow said.  “Is General Leia Organa here?”  He glanced at Rey as if hoping for her nod.

          “I’m Rey,” Rey told him.  “The General--”

          “I’m here.”  The little crowd parted to let Leia through.  She leaned heavily on Chewbacca’s right arm. His left was singed and blackened and he roared once as if to warn Snow off upsetting him any further.

          “I agree,” Leia nodded.  “This better be good, kid,” she told Snow.  “I’ve lived too long just to freeze to death in this cave.”

          If Jon Snow was phased by either Wookie or general he did an impressive job hiding it. 

          “General Organa?” he asked in confirmation.

          “In the flesh,” Leia said.  “And you’re…” she squinted a moment.  “Jon Snow?”

          Snow nodded. “The wolves told you my name?”

          “They told me,” Rey said.  “I passed it on.”

          “This is all…so strange,” Snow said.

          Leia smirked.  “You’re telling me.”

          “So you’re Rey,” Snow said.  “The one I saw as Ghost.”

          “It’s good to meet you, Jon Snow.”  Rey held out her hand.  Snow took it and, amazingly, rather than shaking, bent over it briefly in an odd, courtly way.

          Beside her, Leia, raised an eyebrow. “Did your Sith Master teach you etiquette when he gave you that blade?” She indicated Snow’s lightsaber, now half concealed by his ragged black cloak. 

          “I have no Master,” Snow said. 

           “Then how are you carrying a lightsaber?” Leia asked.  “A red Sith lightsaber, of all things.  Not that I don’t appreciate you saving us...”

          “I found it.”  Snow looked embarrassed.  “When I came through.  On a place called Mustafar.  It was with these clothes.” He pulled the cloak back a little and Rey felt Leia’s Force signature flare.  The general raised a hand to her mouth as Snow continued: “The old Maester said it was alright for me to take them.”

          Oh Force, Rey thought.  Her mind raced.  Under the cloak, Snow wore the traditional habit of a Jedi. It was black though.  It reminded her of something.  Or someone who strode like nightmare through the old holocrons.

          “That’s—” she began, but Leia beat her to it.

          “Those are my father’s robes,” she said.  She held out a hand, suddenly demanding, and without speaking, Snow unhooked the saber and handed it. The Force swelled and faded, leaving prickles along Rey’s arms.  She didn’t think Snow was a Jedi—and certainly not a Sith--but did seem sensitive to the Force.  His dark eyes found hers and she felt the currents click into place between them—a connection forming to tell her: yes, he was the one.

          “I have my own sword,” Snow said quietly, “but the old man said it wouldn’t work here.  He said I’d need a…a saber.  This saber, maybe.  He said I’d need the Red Blade of Heroes but I…I think there’s been a mistake…”  Rey sensed a sudden tremor of anguish.  One not dissimilar from the emotion emanating from Leia. 

          The General held Anakin Skywalker’s saber as if hypnotized.  “Force,” she muttered.  “Luke’s even crazier now that he’s dead.” 

          “Dead?” Snow frowned.  “No.  I spoke with him. Maester Luke.  Of House Skywalker.  He told me to find you.”

          “There is no House Skywalker.”  Abruptly, Leia passed the saber back.  “Luke’s dead, and so’s the man who wielded this.  An evil man—until the last moments of his life.  It makes no sense Luke would give it to you for some heroic deed.” She sighed, shoulders wilting.  “Rey?” she asked.  “Tell me all this isn’t a trick?”

          “No trick.”  Despite her worried expression, Rey knew Leia felt the truth.  And some of the turmoil had lessened in Snow.  His Force signature steadied.  “What is it?” Rey asked gently.  “You’ve realized something?”

          “I think so,” Snow said.  “The one who used this blade.  Did he kill someone he loved?”

          Leia’s expression sharpened.  “Several people.”

          “Then it makes sense Skywalker gave me this blade.”  Snow’s smile was the tightest, weariest smile Rey had seen on a human face.  She very nearly reached out a hand to comfort him but feared to frighten him any more than he already was. 

          And he was afraid.  Afraid as any of them.  Afraid of this world—and of himself. 

          We have that in common, she thought.  The Light shone strongly, but the dark pulled.

          Thinking this, she grew aware of her feet, bare on the floor of the freezing chamber.

          “I’m sorry,” she said, beginning to hop back and forth.  “We’ll figure this out but first…I could really use some socks.”

###

There were socks, and many other needed supplies, hidden on a ledge overlooking a valley.  Snow led the way to a cache of old Rebel supply crates secured beneath a rock-hang and a fraying tarpaulin.

          “These have been here since before the Order,” Leia said as C’ai, Snap, and Beaumont wrestled one to the ground.

          “They’re code-locked!” Snap lamented.  “Alliance-era codes.  Oh man. Can we blast them open?”

          “Slow down there, pilot,” Leia said.  “I know a few things about Alliance-era codes.”  She bent to the side of the crate and activated a still-new-looking data panel.  The panel came to life and the container hissed like a fresh-popped bottle of beer.  Inside were water canteens and packs of protein rations. A second crate contained blankets and flight-uniforms, complete with puffy flight jackets.

          “Here’s a blast from the past,” Poe commented, examining an old flak vest.  “Not half as toasty as the new ones.  I’m beginning to regret giving you my jacket, Finn.”

          Finn, slouching at the border of things, alternately haunted and furious, moved mechanically as if to take off the jacket in question, until Poe waved him down, saying it was only a joke. 

          “Poe,” Rey hissed.  “He’s sick with worry for Rose.  I don’t think he’s in the mood for jokes.”

          “I know,” Poe murmured seriously.  “It’s hurting me to look at him.  I don’t know what to do.”

          “Why don’t you start by putting on warmer clothes and then snagging me some protein sticks while I slip on these boots?”  By now, Rey was shivering so badly she could barely balance to pull the things on. She hopped up and down and eventually got them over the new socks which she’d applied to her feet in doubled pairs.  The boots were a hair too small for this but Rey was willing to suffer for accelerated warmth.   

          Meanwhile, Leia eyed the orange flight suits with distaste.  “Orange was never my color,” she muttered.  Doggedly, she rummaged at the bottom of a crate and emerged beaming with a pair of cozy bomber jackets.

          “That’s better,” she said, pulling on the larger and adding a scarf and a heavy pair of gloves.  Rey copied her, the plain, standard issue white scarf reminding her of her real clothes, lost in the morning’s panic.

          It’s all so bulky, she thought, but didn’t say.  Madness to dwell on aesthetics now.  Only, wearing new clothes in a strange place gave her a melancholy feeling.  She could only imagine how Jon Snow felt: dragged out of his own universe and fitted with Jedi robes. 

          Snow himself had returned to the fire.  He was waiting as everyone filed back inside.  D’Acy, Connix, and Wrobie had procured bedrolls and lanterns and went around making sure everyone had enough.  They’d also found a couple med kits with bacta patches.  Worldlessly, Wrobie tended to Wedge and Chewbacca. For a time, there was only exhausted silence, punctuated by small warning growls from Chewie.  Rey looked around and noticed she and Leia had drifted towards Snow, while Finn and Poe had retreated to a corner.  She watched in sympathy as Finn curled up beside Poe, the shock of the morning finally calling him to sleep.  When Poe noticed Rey’s attention he gave a little chin-nod as if to say “Get on with it.” 

          Rey sighed and approached welcome glow of Snow’s campfire—only to stifle a gasp as the rug he knelt beside moved.  A white head reared up to look at her: the smaller wolf she’d seen once before.  The animal dropped its head with a whimper and Rey realized that the beast was very old.

          “Ghost didn’t feel like battle,” Snow said.  He patted the wolf and the beast gave him a lick before subsiding with a snore. 

          Leia settled herself on a stone by the fire and Rey sat at her feet on Snow’s sleeping roll.  Snow himself faced them, sitting plump on the ground, feeding sticks and branches into the blaze.  With a start, Rey realized he’d prepared a spit: to one side a brace of plucked Loth-hens was ready for cooking.

          “I prefer real food,” Snow said apologetically, nodding to the bouquet of protein sticks Rey had gathered.  “Tried one of those on Mustafar—but the birds here taste just like the ones back home.”

          “I understand,” Rey said.  She preferred real food too, but twenty protein sticks or so ought to hold her.  Still, when Snow plopped the brace down over the fire and the smell of cooked meat began to fill the cavern, she prayed he’d offer to share his meal.  Her last wholesome dinner felt ages away.

          “This takes me back,” Leia said as the fire painted her face in amber.  A faint smile crossed her lips before she twitched it away.  “All right, boy,” she said.  “Tell me everything.”

          “I know as much as you,” Snow said.  “A man named Palpatine wants my world as well as yours.  He’s pulling the worlds together to bring back the Long Night: an eternity of winter, unless he’s slain by a red blade.  Or two red blades.  One for each world.  For each set of heroes…if that’s what we’re called.”  He laughed softly.

          “What’s funny?” Leia asked. 

          “Nothing,” he said.  “Or everything.  I won this war already.  I thought I was done…” He trailed off.  “You’re right, General,” he said.  “I don’t think Master Skywalker’s is the blade I’m looking for.  But I do think he gave it to me because he sensed what I would need.”  His hand moved to something hidden on his belt and he drew forth a dagger, thin and sharp.  He unsheathed it and held it to the light.  “There’s a story where I come from,” he said.  “A blade called Lightbringer forged to save the world, but its magic only came alive when its maker killed his wife with it.” He put the dagger back in its sheath.  “They say I saved the world, once.”

          Leia stiffened.  “You killed someone you loved with that thing?”

          “Just like whoever had Skywalker’s saber.”

          “His name was Darth Vader,” Leia said.  “He killed hundreds of people with the saber you bear.  But no one he loved like family...” She paused suddenly, the color draining from her face.

          This time, Rey was a split second ahead.

          “It’s not Vader’s sword we need,” she said.  “Vader killed his wife without a weapon.  It’s Kylo’s blade.  It has to be.”      

          “Oh kriff,” Leia’s hand went to her heart.  Rey could almost hear Han Solo’s last words.  She’d been there, after all.  Leia had been spared.

          Will you help me? the young man had asked his father.

          Yes, Han said.  Anything.

          Then the crackle as the red blade pierced his heart.

           “Palpatine wants ‘the Red Blade of Heroes,’” Rey said.  “If Master Snow has one version, Kylo has the other.”

          “Don’t you have to be a hero to wield a hero’s blade?” Leia’s voice was dry, but Rey sensed her pain.  Leia never spoke about getting Ben back anymore, but for all he’d done he was still her child.

          “The woman I loved was a hero,” Snow said.  “The greatest hero. Until the end.  Now they sing songs about how I killed her to save the world from her fire.”  He paused.  “I still don’t understand.  How did she come back? Is that working of my world, or yours?” 

          “Oh Force,” Leia said, “you mean that woman from this morning…?”

          “Daenerys,” Snow said sadly.  “The First of her name.  Queen of the Andals and the First Men.  Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.  Breaker of Chains.  Mother of Dragons.”

          “Dragons plural?” Leia asked. 

          “I felt when you touched her mind,” Rey told Snow.  “Did you sense any good in her?  Was there anything left of the woman you knew?”

          “It was chaos.”  Snow spoke to the ground.  “I felt her mind the way I can sense Ghost.  Everything was fire and confusion.  She’s lost and scared and it’s all my fault--”

          “No,” Leia said.  Don’t start down that path.”  The shadows on her face made her look decades older.  “This is all crazy, but I sense the good in you, Jon Snow.  I may be old, but I’m not feeble.  You did what you had to do.”  She rose.  “I trust him,” she told Rey.  “Let him tell you his story and we’ll work out our plans in the morning.  I may not be feeble, but I am tired, and I’m afraid that, on that score, these old bones have their say.”

          “Of course, Master,” Rey said.  It was true.  Leia’s Force signature was waning.  Still, the General paused as she made her way past Snow, and placed a hand gently on his head.  “The best heroes,” she said, “do the hardest things.”  Then she stumped off, calling softly for D’Acy.

          “Do you know why Daenerys is alive?” Snow asked when the camp had quieted a little. 

          Rey shook her head, wishing she could help.  “It might have something to do with Palpatine.  He shouldn’t be alive either.”

          “If there’s a way not to kill her again …” Snow said.

          “Then we’ll find it.” Rey place a hand over his. 

          Snow nodded.  Sparks stirred as he poked at the fire.  The roasting game smelled tantalizing.  If only they’d been camping for fun.

          “Want some?” Snow asked.  It seemed the Loth-hens were done.

          “Thought you’d never ask,” Rey said.

          He smiled.  “Take this one.  It’s hot enough—and I’ve got enough story for at least one meal.”

          Rey grinned and accepted the crisped, smoking hen, bouncing it from hand to hand as Snow began to speak.

          Soon enough, however, she stopped smiling.  The bird cooled in her hands, untouched and cold.

Chapter Text

Finn

He dreamed of a crimson star that swelled to fill the entire world. 

          Winged shapes wheeled, shrieking, in the sky, and, before him, shadows danced with saber and sword.

          No, no, no!  Someone he loved was dead.  He could sense it, their absence, at the heart of the battle.  He was trying to get to them, heart in his throat, dread pulsing in his veins instead of blood.  There were…things…blue-eyed monsters blocking his way, lighting and Sith power bursting around him.  He’d be dead if any of it—any of them--touched him: a death worse than death, enslaved to an inhuman will…

          He fought on across the blood-slicked floor, slashing and killing and, in the way of dreams, firing his blaster, and then suddenly he was there, at the still, awful center.  The body lay face down in the middle of the throne room, a smoking crater in its back.

          Oh no, he thought.  Rey.  It had to be Rey.  That bastard Kylo Ren had killed her.

          But the figure was shorter.  Wearing fatigues.

          Rose? 

          He reached to turn the corpse over.

          It was Poe.

###

Finn came awake with a muffled scream.        

          “POE!”  His voice echoed in the dark.  Oh kriff.  He’d fallen asleep.  He hadn’t meant to fall asleep--

          “Easy, buddy. I’m right here.”

          Finn flinched as a friendly hand gripped his shoulder, as the familiar smell of Poe Dameron’s cologne flirted with his nose.  A pleasant, mellow smell with just a hint of spice.  Literal spice, Finn suspected.  Poe had told him he’d run it.

          Kriff, I’m sweating like a pig.  He flinched away, afraid Poe would get a whiff of his own less appealing scent.  Fear and dust and acrid air.  And nightmare sweat.  A ton of that.

          “Easy,” Poe repeated.  “Just a bad dream.  Relax—keep your blanket on.  I really don’t recommend tossing it.”

          Finn nodded.  The cave he’d fallen asleep in was dark and truly as cold as a Wampa’s lair.  It must have been late.  Snow’s fire was out and the snores of Finn’s companions came from every direction. 

          “You’re all right?” Finn asked.  Poe was a shadow, lit only by a flashlight, its weak beam flickering coolly.  The bluish color reminded Finn of his dream.  A heaviness settled in his chest.

          “I’m worried,” Poe said.

          “About Beebee-ate?”

          “About all of us,” Poe said. 

          “Yeah.”  Finn said.  “Me too.”

          I lost Rose but it’s Poe I saw in my dream. 

          The strangeness of this wasn’t lost on him.  The gut-punch of it roiled his stomach.  He loved Rose, but he sometimes brooded on her.  Part of him was still in love with Rey.  And before Rey, if he dared to admit it, he’d felt…something…for the man beside him.

          His face went hot.

          I love Rose, he thought.  And he did.  But Poe was in his dreams.

          He was suddenly very glad for the sheltering dark and the smoothing effect of Poe’s flashlight.  Sometimes he thought being in the Order had been easier.  He’d been trained to be impassive.  And stormtrooper helmets hid a lot. 

          “Is Rey okay?” Finn asked.

          Poe snorted.  “Always Rey with you!  Yeah, buddy.  She’s great.  Sleeping over there with the General.”  He paused, and even in the dark, he managed to flash a roguish smile.  “Afraid she was gonna bed down with the wolf-boy?”  He nodded to the vague piles of furs that was Jon Snow.

          “No,” Finn said.  But the thought had occurred to him.

          “No.  Course not,” Poe teased.  “It’s not like you’re obsessed with her.”

          “I’m not obsessed!” Finn protested.  His voice echoed a moment before he modulated his tone.      “We’re…she…She’s my Master!  She’s teaching me to touch the Force!”

          Poe snickered.

          “Oh shut up.”  Finn kicked at his.  He always knew when Poe’s mind had set down in the gutter.

          “Hey, I’m not judging,” Poe held up his hands.  “I wouldn’t turn down a ‘lesson’ from Rey either.”

          “You wouldn’t?”

          “Course not.  I’m obsessed myself.  Just like every other man in the galaxy.  You.  Me.  Kylo Ren.  Hell, Beebee-ate has a crush on her.”

          “A crush?” An odd panic welled in Finn’s chest. 

          “Sure,” Poe said.  “Ever heard the stories about Lando Calrisian?  Human and droids?  Entirely possible.  But Beebee’s too young.  I told him so.”

          Finn gaped open-mouthed at his friend.

          “Oh for kriff’s sake,” Poe said.  “We’re talking love, here.  The Unknown Regions and Wild Space of the soul.  Anything is possible.”

          “What?  So you and your droid love Rey?”

          “I love a lot of people,” Poe said.  For a moment his gaze met Finn’s and Finn thought he glimpsed something like sadness in it. Then Poe sighed, breath turning to steam in the cold.  “Guess it’s lucky the galaxy’s gone crazy,” he muttered.  “I let you sleep through Rey’s visit, by the way.  She got a lot of interesting information out of Snow.”

          “You should have woken me!” Finn said.

          “I should have,” Poe nodded, “but then I’d have had to share the Loth-hens.  Not sure I believe all this King of the North, Prince of Dragons stuff, but this Snow does cook a mean chicken.”

          As if to emphasize this point, Finn’s stomach rumbled in desolation.

          “You’re a jerk, Poe Dameron,” he said.

          “Nah.  I’m a softie.”  Poe reached inside his outdated puff-jacket.  The tantalizing smell of real food filled the air as the pilot produced a joint of Loth-hen wrapped in a cloth.  Once more Finn thanked the Force for the dim flashlight glow.  He was fairly sure the cloth was one Poe used to clean machine parts.  Despite that, the chicken tasted glorious.  Finn chomped it down—then felt guilty, wondering what sort of dinner Rose might have had.

          If she’s alive, he thought.  He kept stretching out with the Force, but he couldn’t sense anything definite.  He hoped this was because he was still learning and not because his friend was lying in a ditch somewhere.

          The grimness of the image made him groan and, instantly, Poe placed a hand on his shoulder.  Finn fought not to lean in and weep. 

          “You going to tell me what Rey find out?” he said to distract himself.  “Is Snow in league with that dragon queen who torched our camp?”

          “You could say that,” Poe nodded.

          “Yes?  And?”

          “It’s complicated.” Poe looked wistfully at the ceiling.  “Unknown Regions.  Wild Space.”

          Finn looked at him: his weary bedroom eyes, his five-o-clock shadow, his casual, comforting hand.

          He sighed, deflated, not only from Poe’s vagueness, but from something true and knowing surfacing in his heart. 

          Wild Space, he thought.  Unknown Regions.

          Out loud he said:

          “I know, buddy.  I know.”

Chapter Text

Daenerys

Perched atop the palace dome she could see Theed spread before her like a tapestry of gardens.  Pristine avenues of pinkish marble stretched from the palace square, running parallel with the city’s many waterways.  The palace itself occupied a cliff that dropped away beneath a veil of waterfalls.  Even here, the wind brought her the mineral scent of water and the haunting cries of the Peko-Peko birds. 

          It was hard to imagine the city besieged, occupied by Ser Kylo’s First Order. 

          It’s his right, thought Daenerys Targaryen seated atop her black dragon.  Ser Kylo had family history in Naboo.  His grandmother, a former queen, was interred here in a shining mausoleum.  Padmé Amidala had died of a broken heart after birthing Kylo’s mother, and the twin brother who would grow to be his nemesis. It was as sad a tale as any Dany had learned from Viserys in the long-ago days of their exile.  Whatever Ser Kylo’s right, however, it oppressed Daenerys’s spirits to see the city so subdued.  The wide avenues and towering statues craved garlands of flowers and strolling couples clad in gorgeous regional silks.  Instead, General Hux’s men guarded the palace, and skull-like stormtroopers patrolled the cozy side streets and bazaars.

          And then there was the army encamped upon the plains, those verdant hillsides rolling on in all directions, forever.

          Our army.  Daenerys moved with Drogon as the beast snaked his head in a sweeping survey of his domain.  Together she and Ser Kylo had produced a frightening hodgepodge from the weapons and soldiers of their two worlds.  To the west of Theed, the rising sun glinted on metal: flying transports, death troopers, and the spear-points of rogue Ghiscari (and any number of other warriors whose steps had led them out of the sunshine lands and into Shadow of Asshai). The white-and-black of Kylo’s troops and the red of Kinvara’s fire priests were its own tapestry, austere and stalwart, against the soft colors of the rising dawn.  They appeared both forbidding and insignificant as they clustered before the row of dragons.

          Beneath her, Drogon shifted, claws leaving casual furrows in the brassy metal of the dome. Tiny sparks snapped and died on the wind—the cold wind blowing towards them from where the sky darkened.  He was restless, her one true child.  Mistrustful of the wind.  Made nervous by his stepbrothers.  Transported from Mustafar with the red army, the new dragons caused unease in all who beheld them.  They were quicker, sharper, more colorful beasts.  Even those who’d never seen a dragon could see they differed from Drogon.  They were younger and barely large enough to be ridden.  But ridden they would be.  Tiny figures sat astride them.

          It’s another Red Sowing, Dany thought—though no prospective dragonriders had been eaten or burned.  Those who rode were Knights of Ren and Priests of R’holor, including Dany’s maid, Javira, who now bore the red eyes and ruby choker of a full initiate.  Kinvara had ordained the girl the night before, the third night since they’d departed Mustafar and the fifth since leaving Lothal.  In the Dance of the Dragons, when bastard Targaryens bonded dragons, it was thought one must have the blood of Old Valyria to succeed. Here, in Ser Kylo’s galaxy, the Force was the determinate.  All twenty new riders had what Ser Kylo called “sensitivity” that allowed them to form a connection with their mounts.

          Which meant that he could ride one too.  He was down on the field: a dark figure on a golden dragon.  This was Aegar—the first of her new children, sharp and quick, the largest of the all.  He had all-but-sought Ser Kylo out the first evening when they let the dragons free of The Steadfast. 

          It was more a choosing than a sowing, Dany reflected.  The dragons seemed to have been waiting for their riders.  Much to the chagrin of an anxious Tyrion—who kept insisting loudly and regularly that Palpatine was setting a trap—the bonding had been accomplished in less than a day.  A few dragons had even eyed Tyrion.  Ser Kylo said the dwarf had the same sensitivity as Dany, which was surely another trick of the Force.  Tyrion Lannister had no Targaryen blood.  He’d be left behind to brood while the Order of the Dragon flew north.

          Any minute now, Dany thought.  Her stomach clenched with nervousness.  The cold wind whipped at her tight-bound braid and ruffled the synth furs of her beautiful new riding coat.  For a few days, Naboo had made her feel like a real queen, with real gowns and food and sparkling wine—but the dark horizon had only drawn nearer and her dreams were filled with blue-eyed monsters and wolves.

          She bared her teeth and readied Drogon to take the field.  She’d destroyed the White Walkers once.  She would do it again.  She would destroy Palpatine as well.  And when she saw Jon Snow…

          You will all be mine…!

          The mocking voice in her head was not her own.

          Drogon growled and wriggled his shoulders as if to remove a loathsome touch.

          With a snarl, Daenerys Targaryen dug her knees into her dragon and let the great beast bear her down to the field.

          She landed amongst them, scattering her children so she and Drogon stood, at last, at the center of a wheel.  Green, golden, red, brown, and even purple-hued dragons snapped the air or lowered their heads and whined to find the greater dragon among them.  Some of them, such as the slight, silverish dragon Javira rode, had spent most of their time this side of the Shadow basking in the heat of Mustafar, making cozy caves in the deep recess beneath the castle’s receiving chamber where the lava of the fire planet seeped eternally from the stone.  As such, they were nervous animals, depending on their bond with their rider.  There was much shushing and soothing and backing away as faceless Knights and tattooed fire-priests patted serpentine necks.

          Only Aegar and Ser Kylo were composed and controlled.  The golden dragon slid confidently up to Drogon.  When Drogon snarled and hissed to display his dominance, the smaller dragon lowered its head and hissed back in acquiescence.  There would be no challenges today, other than the Great Challenge that lay before them.

          “Ready?” Ser Kylo asked.  The wind whipped his dark hair back from his princely forehead.  Though he rode a smaller dragon and wore his same, simple garb, there was no doubt that he was the one in charge.  Daenerys bore him no antipathy for this.  This was no longer her world.  The Iron Throne and Westeros were gone.  She herself was gone—or some version of her.  Whatever she was now she was beyond kings and kingdoms.  When she asked Kinvara to read the flames she saw only a vast redness.  Some days she believed the priestess that this meant a magnificent destiny.  Today she thought it must be the fires of revenge.

          “Ready,” she nodded. 

          Good, the wind mocked her.  Goooood. 

          Ser Kylo scowled and she nodded: yes—the Emperor still plagued them for afar.

          We’ll destroy him, Ser Kylo said in her mind.  He guided Aegar closer and reached to take her hand.  As their fingers touched Daenerys found herself thinking of their nights together, how she’d woken that morning tangled in the fresh white sheets of a proper bed.  He’d already been gone, off to don his quilted armor, but the ache and soreness of their nightly coupling remained.  They’d become fiercer lovers in the last few days—and also more tender and more in tune.  They barely needed words to instruct one another in the strange comforts they craved once the sun went down.  It was almost as if their minds were joined or…

          Or as if we are somehow one, she thought.  Cut from the same cloth or from the same soul.  She shook her head.  She was growing as fey as Kinvara—but the understanding in Ser Kylo’s eyes made her want to weep.  There were no words to describe this kinship, but it was there and far deeper than flesh.

          Ser Kylo drew back and spoke into his commlink.  “Hux.”

          The link crackled.  “Yes, Supreme Leader.”  Towards the front of the army a First Order transport thrust upward. Ser Kylo wasn’t one for speeches so he’d given the red-headed general the honor of calling the march.  Below Hux’s transport were hundreds of others, all filled with warriors ready to take on the advancing wights.  Dany marveled at the wide range of machines.  Ser Kylo’s tech would enable in hours a journey that would have taken a Westrosi army weeks.  Her red warriors seemed to know it, too.  She’d seen shadowbinders prowling the hovering ships, admiring the fiery exhalation of their engines.  The machines were another sort of dragon, to be worshipped as surely as any of the beasts who would fly above them.

          “Gentlemen!” Hux began—and despite her dislike, Daenerys felt her heart lifting.  His aggressive speech felt appropriate to this moment when she was about to make a hated enemy pay.

          But before Hux had uttered more than a sentence, Drogon shifted beneath her and began to growl.  As Hux’s volume increased, the dragon roared and, to Dany’s alarm, made a lunge for the sky.

          “Drogon, no!  What are you doing?”  She dug her knees into the dragon and pressed herself against his neck.  Usually this had a calming effect, but the dragon writhed as if to shake her off.  Dany screamed and clung to his spines as he rose and flapped angrily a few dozen feet in the air.  His long tail lashed out and another dragon shrieked.  Ser Kylo looked up at her in shock.

          It must be Palpatine.  Her thoughts were muddled, but the Emperor’s presence had just been with her.  Surely--

          She gasped as Drogon lunged higher, shrieking and hissing at the other dragons.  Despite all her urgings he turned in the air and began to bear her up and away from the field.

          No, no, no! Daenerys thought.  The wind swallowed her voice as she tried to call to him.  The world tilted dizzily below her and she couldn’t speak to him with her mind.  All she sensed in him was fear.  And all she could do was hang on by her fingernails—

          No.  Come back.

          Suddenly the dragon stilled.  The great wings flapped but carried him nowhere.  Dany turned, looking down below her where a thin, dark figure stood raising its hand.  Ser Kylo was moving towards him on lumbering Aegar, but it was not his voice or power holding Drogon in check.

          Come back, Hataska Ren said calmly and, for a wonder, Drogon came.

          He landed back in the circle of dragons, still growling and shifting but under control.  Dany felt a combination of sullenness and panic as the great beast settled before Ser Kylo and Hataska.  Ser Kylo frowned, puzzled, at his brother Knight, but before he could interrogate him, Kinvara and Tyrion appeared.  Both approached the snarling dragon as they might have a drunken comrade—and Tyrion actually stretched a hand out soothe the beast.

          He did free Viserion and Rhaegal, Dany thought.  He’d told her as much after they’d departed Mereen.  He’d always wanted a dragon, he’d told her, and somehow he’d gotten close enough to remove her children from their chains.

          “It’s all right,” he said now, small hand held up to Drogon, seemingly unafraid the beast would simply bite it off.  His worry was reserved for Kinvara.  “Is this what you saw in your flames?” he asked.

          The red priestess’s skirts swirled in the wind.  “The dragon wishes to protect its mother,” she said. 

          “My lady Kinvara senses a trap,” Tyrion said.

          “Of course it’s a trap,” Ser Kylo’s eyebrows drew together as he glared at the dwarf and the priestess. Beside him, Hataska Ren stood stiffly, hand half-raised as if anticipating having to use the Force again. The strange power, Dany sensed, was the only thing keeping Drogon from carrying her back into the sky.

          “I felt the Emperor a moment ago,” Dany said.  “He wants my mind but he is too far away.”

          “This is different, your Grace,” Kinvara said.  “You must trust your child.  He senses disaster.”

          “Are you suggesting I stay here?”  Dany was incredulous.  Rank upon rank of warriors stood before her.  Twenty dragons.  Countless machines.  “Why are you only warning us of this now?”

          “It was a vision,” Tyrion said.  “Just now.”

          “You have visions now?” Ser Kylo mocked him.

          “No.”  It was Hataska.  “The priestess.”  He nodded to Kinvara, impassive as always, but with flickering fire in her deep red eyes.

          “You must not go with this army,” the priestess said.  “Let Ser Kylo lead them, and stay here in safety.  Your own child senses it, Daenerys.  If you fight this battle you will hand your enemies the advantage.”

          “This is ridiculous,” Ser Kylo snarled.  “If it’s a trap for her it’s a trap for me.”

          “He has other plans for you, my Lord of Ren,” Kinvara said.  “You must face him, but Daenerys must delay while she can.”

          “It’s Palpatine toying with the dragon now,” Ser Kylo protested.  “You’re being manipulated.  The queen comes with me.”  He moved Aegar as if to intercept Drogon—but the black dragon shrieked, pawing the earth, and Hataska Ren put himself in front of Kylo.

          “It’s not Palpatine,” the spindly Knight said.  “Search your feelings, my lord.  It’s the dragon alone.  We know little about these beasts, but I sense they are connected to the Force.  This one senses a disturbance.  Perhaps you should do as the priestess says.”

          “Perhaps you should get out of my way before I destroy you.”  Ser Kylo advanced menacingly on the Knight.  Hataska only stood there placidly.  Ser Kylo frowned as some invisible barrier blocked his progress.  “You traitor!” he began, but now Tyrion spoke, his small hand held up, almost touching Drogon’s muzzle.

          Like Jon, Daenerys thought.

          “It’s all right,” Tyrion said.  “Don’t you remember Meereen?”

          He’s talking to Drogon, not me, Dany knew. Indeed, Drogon’s restless shifting calmed.  The dragon bent to sniff gently at the dwarf (who seemed about ready to piss his breeches).  But Tyrion doesn’t shrink away, Dany thought.  She felt a wash of her old regard for him.  He’d betrayed her, helped to murder her, but no one could call Tyrion Lannister a coward.

          “It’s all right,” the dwarf murmured again as Drogon nudged a huge head into his small hand.  Another anguished whine came from the beast, as if he sought the consolation of an old friend.  “He’s afraid, your Grace,” Tyrion said.  “We all are.  For your safety.”

          Daenerys sighed.  She could feel the dragon thrumming beneath her with the uneasy energy of a dropped harp.  If not for Ser Hataska’s powers, Drogon would take to the sky. 

          “He doesn’t want me to go,” Daenerys told Ser Kylo.  It agonized her, but she felt it was true.  Either Drogon would take off and bear her away or fly off alone leaving her without a mount.  Cold terror gnawed her as she realized: if she tried to leave the dragon she would never see him again.

          Gods no!  I couldn’t bear it!  She’d lost everything. She couldn’t lose her child, too.  It would be like being torn from her soul.

          “I’ll stay behind,” she said.

          “We need you--”  Ser Kylo began.

          Dany shook her head.  “You have all you need.  Your Knights and my army can handle the dragons and I can stay here in case something goes wrong.   This Emperor of yours is powerful—we should hold some dragons in reserve.”

          “We have,” Ser Kylo tried to argue.  It was true that dozens more dragons remained on the Steadfast. 

          “They’re too small,” Daenerys said, “and Drogon is worth all twenty of these.”  She said it gently.  The children of her second life were still her children. 

          Beneath Ser Kylo, Aegar whined like a child sensing its parents in a row.  Kylo searched Dany’s face, his own tense and angry—and then softened, sinking back on the saddle he’d had made.  Unlike Dany, all the other dragonriders had saddles.  Tyrion had provided specifications and the First Order’s machines had done the rest.

          Tyrion, she thought.  Could he be up to something?  But no.  Drogon’s unease hadn’t come from the dwarf.  And neither the Knight Hataska nor Kinvara seemed likely to interfere with today’s plans unless they truly sensed something truly dangerous.

          “All right then,” Ser Kylo agreed.  “But if you’re staying, you must be protected.  HUX!”  He bellowed--and got a shaky response over his commlink.

          “Y-yes, Supreme Leader?”

          “Get up here,” Kylo said.  “There’s been a change of plans.”

###

That was how, an hour later, Dany watched from her tower window as the great muster of machines and dragons rode off into the storm.  Purplish lighting lit the gathering thunderclouds on the horizon while the lush grasslands rippled with the passing of the host.  Drogon had gone to roost on the palace rooftop and Hux, Tyrion, Kinvara, and Hataska dispersed at Dany’s command.  She felt vaguely angry at all of them, though, in the looming storm she began to sense the cause of their unease.  The quiet that settled with her army’s departure rang through the city like a bell.

          No, stop, she warned herself.  She must guard her thoughts now and trust her counsellors’ intuition.  She hadn’t done that, last time, in Westeros. This time she must do everything in reverse.  Guard and listen.  Wait.  Trust.

          But oh, the pain and cold fury in her heart.

          I can’t hurt Jon, she thought, the grasses empty before her.  No army.  No Khalasar.  No dashing Knight of Ren.  But she had wanted to hurt Palpatine, dark lord and author of her decline.

          I am still the dragon.  I should be a dragon.  This too, was the opposite of what had happened before.  She could remember her talk with doomed Lady Olenna. 

          The Lords of Westeros are sheep.  Are you a sheep?  No.  You are a dragon.  Be a dragon.

          If only she had.  She might still be queen of Westeros.

          I should have taken King’s Landing while I could.  While I still had all my children and my full army.  Cersei Lannister had burned the Sept of Baelor, by then.  The people had called her the Mad Queen.

          Instead I listened to the sheep, Dany thought.  Instead, I wound up slaughtered like one.  But not before…

          She shuddered, remembering screams, the smell of burning.

          I did that.  Palpatine worked through me, but I levelled King’s Landing. 

          She turned from the window, shrugged deeper into her coat—a fine burnt-orange silk-velvet lined with rich synth fur.  The wind through the window was suddenly too cold and the danger of remembering too near.

          I used to think if I looked back I would be lost, she thought.  It seemed doubly true now.  She had so wanted to go with Ser Kylo.  To wreak whatever vengeance that she could.  How was she supposed to fight Palpatine like this?  Alone with lonely thoughts the old monster surely would have preyed on?

          “Your Grace?”

          She started.  It was Tyrion, his small, curly head poking around her chamber door.

          “What now?” Her hand had gone to her breast.  She clenched her fist as if that might armor her.

          “It’s nothing,” Tyrion said, waddling inside.  He left the door open a crack—a strangely furtive gesture.  Dany peered around him, trying to see if someone else were lurking in the hall, but Tyrion approached her with unexpected swiftness.  His small hand found its way into hers before she could anticipate the movement.

          “What?” she said, stepping back.  Her heart sped up in sudden warning.  But before she could pull away from Tyrion, he placed a second hand gently but firmly atop her own.

          “My lady,” he said.  His voice was low.  Conspiratorial.  Afraid.  “My lady, it is time for us to go.”

          Dany didn’t understand.  “Go where?” She tried to pull away—but Tyrion held her with than same gentle firmness.  His expression was infinitely sad.  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him mischievous or laughing. If Daenerys Targaryen had died in King’s Landing, so too had the last vestiges of the Imp.

          “What is this?” Dany hissed.  “Are you going to try and kill me again?” She half expected a dagger to appear in his hand—yet, for some reason, she felt unable to draw away.

          “Kill you?” Tyrion mouthed the words as they were in Old Ghiscari.  “Kill…?  Gods, no!  My lady, I’ve come to save you.  To save us all from the evil of Kylo Ren.”

          “Evil?” Daenerys laughed in his face.  “If he’s so evil why is he off fighting our enemies?  Perhaps he should have stayed here and killed you.”

          Tyrion did not let go of her.

          “I deserve that,” he said, nodding with insufferable sadness.  “But Ser Kylo is as much a threat to you as Palpatine.  He is leading you astray, my queen.  If you stay with him it will end in darkness.”

          “You tricked us!” Daenerys suddenly understood.  “You did something to Drogon to keep me here!”

          “I did,” Tyrion admitted, “but Drogon wanted to help.  As did Lady Kinvara and Ser Hataska.”

          “Kinvara?” Daenerys felt weak.  The Red Priestess had led her to Ser Kylo.  Why would she suddenly change course?

          “My lady,” Tyrion urged her, “please sit with me a moment.  There is something I need to tell you.”

          Dazed, Dany let him lead her to the bed and sunk down on the mattress as Tyrion clambered up to sit beside her.  He took her hand one more and gazed into her eyes.

          “I have always loved you,” he said.

          Dany scowled.  “You have an odd way of showing it.”

          Tyrion ignored her, pressing her hand as if his palm might be more persuasive than his tongue.  “I loved you the first moment I saw you,” he said.  “I loved you through all of it.  I never stopped.”

          “Even when you killed me?” Dany asked.

          “Even then.  Especially then.”

          “Especially…?” Dany could have hit him.  If she’d been Drogon she might have roasted him alive.  She could sense her dragon nearby just then as if it had sensed a disturbance and were coming to investigate.

          “I know how awful that sounds,” Tyrion said.  “But I have always loved who you truly are.  A good and powerful woman who cares for her own.  A hero who wants justice, even to a fault.”

          Since Dany could not seem to withdraw her hand, she clenched it around Tyrion’s as her lips curled in a snarl.

          “You stabbed your hero in the heart.”

          “It wasn’t you.” Tyrion shook his head.  “You were not yourself.  And I don’t want it to happen again.”  Though Dany’s nails dug into the back of his hand, he gently rested his free hand atop it.  The tears in his eyes were not from pain.  At least, not the miniscule physical kind.

          “Ser Kylo is a magnet to the dark,” he said.  “He does not love you.  His destiny lies with another.”  He paused.  “Yours does too.  You know it.  As painful and unfair as it is, you must confront Jon Snow. Something went terribly wrong before.  We have to face it—face each other—to make it right.”

          A single tear rolled down his cheek and seeped into the tangle of his beard.  He didn’t seem aware of it.

          He looks like a drowning sailor, Daenerys thought.  But there was no contempt in it.  Her hand had softened in his.

          “I don’t love you, Tyrion,” she said. 

          “I know,” he nodded.  “I can live with that.  What I can’t live with is letting you stay here and risk becoming the Queen of the Ashes once more.”  Suddenly, he raised her hand to his mouth and pressed a whiskery kiss to her skin.  And though Daenerys Targaryen did not love him she felt something warm and real stir in her heart.  She thought it might be trust. 

          She sighed, squeezing Tyrion’s hand, looking around the room where she and Kylo Ren had made love. 

          “But how can we leave?” she asked aloud.  “That man Hux is in charge here, and, even if we can get ship big enough to take Drogon, there’s no one who will help us fly it.”

          “Ah well, as to that…” Tyrion said.  He turned his head towards the door.  “It’s safe now.  Come in.”

          A few beeps and pneumatic hums sounded as a trio of droids ventured into the room.  One was tall and golden, the others rounded.  They were led by a very suspicious-looking girl. 

          “Who…?”  Daenerys rose from the bed as Tyrion waddled over to close the door behind the strange assembly.

          “Daenerys Targaryen,” Tyrion said.  “Meet Rose Tico.  She’s going to help us steal a star destroyer.”

Chapter Text

Kylo

The air grew colder and colder around him as he urged the dragon into the teeth of the storm. 

          As the wind lashed his face he thought ruefully of his old helmet but concentrating on the Force muted his pain.  Soon he was free simply to marvel at the ride.  No TIE fighter ever made could rival this flight.  The dragon felt part of the elements, its fire connected to something in his soul.  He thought, more than once, that he understood how Palpatine had lured Daenerys into incinerating an entire city.  If you had this sort of power in your grasp the temptation to the Dark Side would be great.

          Maybe it’s good she stayed behind.  Daenerys had the biggest score to settle with Palpatine The farther the golden dragon carried him, the more Kylo himself spoiled for a fight.  If he felt this eager for half the cause, he could only imagine what Daenerys might have suffered.

          I have to be careful, he thought with some effort.  Stick to our plan.  Remember what she said. His dragon queen had no end of grisly speculation about what might await them, moving beneath the storm.

          Nineteen other dragons flew with him, ridden by priestesses, red warriors, and Knights.  Jaedec and Lorl Ren had tamed two of the larger dragons—a glittering green and a dowdy brown.  They flanked Kylo, while the fire-priests flapped behind them, led by a bald and shirtless fellow so tattooed with red and black he could been a Zabrak. Red was the common theme of these people.  Now and then, Kylo caught the flashing skirts of the priestesses.  Unlike the men they looked lovely instead of sinister.  But they hummed against the Force with a low, malevolent frequency.  He had yet to see any of them cast a flame spell—but he thought that was about to change.

          Below, on the ground, it was the same: the dark machines and varied Order troops leading the red army.  The one variable between this world and Daenerys’ was that no one quite knew how Order tech would affect the wights.  The transmission Hux had picked up indicated that blasters were useless.  But laser canons and thermal detonators were a different animal. If all went well, the army wouldn’t have to rely on magic.  The Order would produce its own fire.

          Just snow, now though, he thought, shivering despite himself.  The air had grown so dense and white… This was the Lake Country, but you’d never have known it. The vast lakes and rolling terrain had been covered over.

          The attack came in a howl of wind that dispersed the dragons as effectively as a bomb. 

          Kylo found himself dangling from Aegar’s neck before he understood what had happened.  The dragon had flipped upside-down, leaving Kylo’s feet kicking above a white void.  Other upside-down dragons tumbled away behind him, their riders fighting in furious silence to right them.  It was too cold to scream.  Breathing filled his throat with ice.  He coughed, clinging mindlessly, wind shrieking in his ears.

          It sounded like laughter.  Mindless laughter.  The wind was the maniacal glee of one man…. 

          Swearing, scrabbling Kylo seized the Force and used it to flip himself and the dragon upright.

          Fly! he thought, and Aegar shot like an arrow, slicing through the clouds until the air turned clear.  The blue sky shrieked into existence, a vast, limpid dome, the storm a river below.

          Kylo’s head reeled.  There was nothing for miles but flowing, sinuous river of clouds.  White and grey, pierced only with contrails as other dragons broke through to free air.  He spotted the Zabrak-man several clicks to the west, Jaedec—no Lorl.  The girl-priestess, Javira—but none of her brothers or sisters.

          Not yet, anyway, Kylo thought, but horror settled in his heart.  Screams and muffed explosions came in bursts below the cloud cover, and red-and-violet lightnings shimmered in the depths.

          “RIDERS TO ME!” Kylo barked into his commlink, simultaneously reaching out with the Force.  There was a correlation between the Force and the dragon riders.  Some would hear in their minds what they might not over the link.  Especially if they’re down in that, he thought, casting a hopeless look past Aegar’s wings.  It amazed him how he suddenly cared.  For just an instant he flashed upon his Jedi training—the camaraderie of sharing a goal.

          Snoke killed them, he reminded himself.  I pulled the hut down on Skywalker but Snoke killed the padawans.

          Snoke? a familiar, croaking voice inquired.  I made Snoke.  I killed your padawans!  Now come and see me kill your pitiful army! COME AND SEE!

          Aegar shrieked, wings desperately flapping, and loosed a jet of flame as if to warn away an attacker.  A few more dragons had surfaced and now winged towards them.  Five…six…seven….No more.

          Hataska and that stupid dwarf were right, Kylo thought, trying to gather himself, to drive lurking Palpatine from his mind.  Daenerys had warned him of storms and White Walkers, but twenty dragons should have been enough and this ambush had been so sudden…

          Fuck it.  Kylo drew his saber. If this was the trap he would smash it apart.  As the cross-guard blade sizzled to life in his hand he waved it above his head like a beacon.

          FORM UP! he ordered, no longer bothering to shout.  Jaedec, Javira, Zabrack-man—they could all hear him.  The others: another priest and priestess, a single, random Stormtrooper (Kylo remembered thinking the latter the most normal-looking) could either understand him or their dragons could.  They swept toward him in a tight, rumbling formation.  The great beasts let off flames and their riders grimaced—fire flashing to life in four-of-seven pairs of hands

          STAY TOGETHER AND BURN A HOLE THROUGH THIS STORM, Kylo ordered.  BURN ANYONE WHO’S NOT US.  BURN THEM ALL!

          His new army—or the only army he could be certain of

          (Only seven.  Seven against how many? Against WHAT?)

nodded and formed a phalanx, screaming as they dived.

###

The battlefield emerged slowly through churning mists as dragon fire vaporized the snow.  Where the army had been was a sea of white riddled with the hunched shapes of overturned transports.  Snow still hissed down the surrounding mountains: the tail-end of an avalanche.  Palpatine had tried to bury the army whole—yet men stirred, fire flashed—and the dead moved forward.

          Kylo’s oath froze as he passed above the shuffling figures.  Here they were: the wealthy residents of the Lake Country, moving mindlessly through the whiteness.  Their skin, dark or pale, was tinged blue as if they’d surfaced from a frozen lake.  Their clothes, worn through the days and nights of their advance, were caked in a crackling layer of frost.

          Still, Kylo might have mistaken them for living people if it hadn’t been for their flint-chip eyes.  Eyes as blue as the heart of winter.  Unblinking.  Empty.  Implacable.

          There were First Order troops down there as well.  Stumbling along with chewed faces and missing limbs.  A cluster of Stormtroopers struggled in the rearguard, their white armor encumbering them so they could barely move. 

          They did move, though.  The whole horrible mass.  Slowly as a spreading stain.  Blaster fire and detonators felled some of them, thrown by troopers who’d clambered out of the fallen transports.  Huge sprays of snow went up—and grisly fountains of  shredded limbs, but the dead moved on, and the survivors fell back, at least half of them lost in the slide.

          END OF THE LINE AND CIRCLE BACK! Kylo ordered—but the command was interrupted by a frenzied whoop.  Young, pretty Javira shot past him on her silver dragon, a ball of fire blazing in her hand.  She screamed something in an unknown language that made Kylo’s head buzz with unspeakable power—and the other red-priests darted after her, forming a pack that turned as one like a flock of scaled birds.  They seemed intent on a specific patch of snow, a place still smoking from the effects of a thermal detonator…

          No, wait…Kylo thought.  That particular patch was bare.  Steam gushed up from its center, but the dead had not yet come…

          A dark euphoria rose within him as he realized: something was melting the snow from beneath. As he hurtled by above it, a hole opened, snow cratering downward, spreading, revealing…

          The red dragons (nearly all the beasts Kinvara’s people had bonded were red) flew lower, spewing flames at the advancing dead.  Their riders hurled fire around the crater and the eerie flames stuck, forming a ring of solid fire. 

          Kylo’s head went woozy as he urged Aegar back around.  A moment ago he’d been frozen, now sweat ran down his spine. 

          “Dracarys,” he ordered as Daenerys had taught him, and watched the wights below evaporate in fire and steam.

          To his delight, at the center of the crater, a circle of red priestesses had emerged, standing back-to-back with Daenerys’s strange warriors, their palms blazing with yellow fire.  As the snow melted, the men sprung from the priestesses’ sides and charged up the snowbank, through the magic fire.  The flames parted to let them through and then they were screaming, leaping in defiance at the dead.  Flaming spears and smoking swords cut down dozens of wights before the men themselves were overrun.  Kylo realized he couldn’t strafe the dead without destroying their living attackers.

          He knew this was by design.  The warriors of Asshai desired death.  Not just any death, either: death by fire.  Already, Javira and her comrades were diving.

          “Dracarys!”

          More wights blazed to nothing.  Their mortal attackers died smiling with lunatic joy.

          For an instant, Kylo hovered in stunned amazement above a gulf of incandescent flame.

          Force, he thought.  Did we win?

          Something sharp and icy rushed past his face.

          The next moments unfolded in slow horror.  The nightmare cadence of a bad dream.

          Between Daenerys’s army and the Order most of the dead had been obliterated.  Vague shapes crept at the margins, but the larger flood had stemmed.  Yet in a moment that should have been rife with victory, the red dragons shrieked in anguish.  A glittering spear of ice, as large as the beast itself, had sprouted through the breast of Javira’s dragon.  The little priestess was already slumped over, dead, and her mount’s blood smoked as it spewed onto the women below her.

          As the other dragons screamed and dispersed in alarm, the ring of priestesses fell thrashing on the ground.  Even before he passed into the space Javira’s dragon had occupied, Kylo could see the women melting, the blood of the dying dragon singeing their skin.

          A moment later, Javira’s dragon smashed down on top of them, its tail swatting out the circling fire.  The creature was dead along with most of the sisters, and the red dragons were scattering like sparks upon the wind.

          NO! REFORM! Kylo urged Aegar forward, taking a zig-zag path in case another spear was coming.  He’d hadn’t seen what had thrown the weapon, but Daenerys’s stories gave him an idea.

          If you kill the leaders you kill them all…Her reminder whispered in his memory.  He’d seen nothing, though.  Just the sea of wights.  None of the ghostly Walkers she and Tyrion feared. 

          Even as the thought raced through his mind, a gargling shriek sounded to his right. Instinctively, he swerved from the sound—and beheld Jaedec Ren and his dragon impaled. 

          A drop of stinging blood burned through Kylo’s shirt and he smelled the stink of his own singed hair.  Panicking, he swept free of the kill zone while his Knight and the dragon plummeted like a stone. 

          Snow fountained where they fell. Order Troops scurried as the dragon’s body skidded into a transport.  A moment later an explosion rocked earth and sky as the beast’s blood ignited a damaged engine.

          Kriff FUCK! Kylo thought, swerving again, mentally screaming for the red dragons to return.  He thought he saw a few winged shapes moving back towards him, could see the Order forming up beyond the flaming transport…

          Then a gust of wind his him like a club, sending him spinning helplessly through nothing.

          He heard laugher, knew the white earth was screaming up to meet him….

          And then he felt nothing but the cold.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

Daenerys already had quarters on The Steadfast and had gone ahead under the pretense of retrieving some belongings.  The droids, C-3PO, R2-D2, and BB-8 would enter the ship by other means.  When Tyrion asked the girl exactly what they planned, she only snorted and said: “They’re pros.”

          That left Tyrion, Hataska, Kinvara, and Rose Tico herself, to corner General Hux in his quarters.

          Also, a grouchy BB-39, bitterly disappointed that they had discarded Tyrion’s first idea.

          “Come on now, Three-Nine,” Tyrion muttered as the little black ball grumped down another durasteel passageway at his side.  “It would have drawn too much attention and, as you may have noticed, I’m too short for a Stormtrooper.”

          BB-39, who’d freed both his articulated limbs, the better to gesture his disappointment, waved them at Kinvara and Hatastka Ren—who, as the much taller and more stately members, were leading the procession.

          “They don’t need Stormtrooper armor to look imposing,” Tyrion said.  Truer words had never passed his lips.  Every First Order troop who encountered their party skipped a step when Hataska and the red woman appeared.  The Knights of Ren and the Fire Priests, Rose Tico had informed Tyrion, were what was known in the Galaxy as “loose cannons.” Not a soul stepped forth to challenge them as they strode deeper into the heart of the ship.

          “No, no,” Tyrion sighed, including Rose in his musings.  “I’m glad we didn’t do the ‘escaped prisoners’ plan.” 

          The girl, dressed in red like one of Kinvara’s acolytes, smirked.

          “Yeah,” she said.  “Being a prisoner gets old.”

          Tyrion winced.  He should have chosen his words more carefully.  “Well, I never took you prisoner,” he said.

          “No, but your little friend has.” Rose nodded at Three-nine. 

          BB-39 started to beep something nasty, but Tyrion elbowed it in the side.

          “That’s enough,” he said.  “You’re on our side now.”

          “He’d better be,” Rose muttered.  The hood she wore disguised her face—which would have been recognizable to Hux’s men—but her painted mouth made a hard line, and her hands tensed where she hid them in her long, dagged sleeves.  She had a couple of blasters hidden up them.  She’d tried to tuck one of them into Tyrion’s belt but, though this was the accepted style in her world, Tyrion wasn’t taking any chances.  If one of Hux’s cronies saw him walking around armed, it might make them think—and no one wanted that.

          She’s not taking any chances either, Tyrion thought.  Short and pretty, moving easily after Kinvara, Rose Tico looked meek, but Tyrion bet she was a dead-shot with that blaster. And she seemed to know every inch of the Steadfast.

          “Right at the fork,” she muttered as their party came to a divided passage.  “Just a few more minutes.  Hux’ll be in.  He’s probably glued to the feeds right now, waiting see if Kylo Ren’s been eaten.”

          She raised her voice a little as if hoping to goad Hataska. But the Knight only made a faint bubbling sound.  It was one that always made Tyrion think the man  was smiling (provided he was, in fact, a man).

          Nervy of her, Tyrion mused.  He found he liked Rose more and more.  Not that she liked him.  At all.  She reminded him of Sansa Stark in more ways than one.

          Why have all my loves been doomed? he wondered.  Only his poor Tysha had really loved him.  Perhaps she was the only woman he’d loved too—for could any love be true if only one person held it?

          I need to get very drunk, he decided.  He often thought that his truest love was wine.  It was always there for him—even here.  And what was true love if not reliable?

          If not steadfast?

          “What’s funny?” Rose asked as he grunted laughter.

          “Nothing,” he answered.  “Nothing at all.”

          “Well, get it together,” she said.  “Those men up there are guarding Hux’s quarters.”

          Tyrion peered between Kinvara and Hataska at the pair of burly Stormtroopers guarding a pneumatic door.  The weird helmets of unknown material never failed to unnerve him.  There were living men in those suits, but the armor made them look like skeletons.  He found it odd that the people of the Galaxy seemed to hold them in such little regard. They certainly were scary to him, thought they left Rose, Hataska, and Kinvara unmoved.  Only Tyrion slowed as the two ‘troopers noted their approach and crossed their huge blasting guns over Hux’s door.

          “The General isn’t receiving visitors,” began the one near Hataska, but he trailed off as the Knight waved a hand before his face.  At the same time, a flame glowed in Kinvara’s hand, hypnotizing the second Stormtrooper in an instant.

          “You will stand guard for us,” whispered the priestess seductively.  Her gown today was held together by two gossamer strings.  Even Hataska, Tyrion figured, had to have imagined, by now, tugging off those wrappings to see what lay beneath. 

          “I’ll….yes,” the ‘trooper nodded.  His helmet canted downward as if to find Kinvara’s navel.  She shook her wrist to extinguish the enchanted flame then patted her new lackey softly on the head.

          To her left, Hataska had subdued the other ‘trooper.

          “You’ll let the droids in, then leave for the hangar,” he said.

          “We’ll let the droids in, then leave for the hangar,” the guard repeated. 

          Hataska stepped back and turned to Kinvara.  “I told you you could do it.”

          The priestess smiled.  “R’hollor’s power is heightened in this world.”

          “So is security.”  Rose Tico pushed between them.  She and aimed a gleaming blaster at the lighted door panel and killed whatever locking mechanism it had inside. 

As Tyrion scrambled after her, she tossed him the second blaster she’d concealed.  He barely caught it, and barely managed to follow her as she tore across a sterile-but-expensive-looking common room. 

          As on Mustafar, Hux’s furniture was sinuous and metallic, but with far more purple cushions than any sane man could have use for.  A rounded metal table, blinking with see-through images, dominated the left-most wall.  Tyrion didn’t have a chance to study it before another blaster-shot sounded.  He coughed and waved away a puff of acrid smoke—then startled at an unexpected sound.  Kinvara and Hataska must have heard it too because they closed in behind him as he approached the back of chamber.

          Rose Tico stood in the entrance of General Hux’s bedroom, her hood pushed back, her blaster trained on some target within.  She was laughing so uproariously Tyrion thought she’d lost her mind.

          “Oh Wizard!” she said.  “I don’t believe it!”  She was still laughing when Tyrion peeked into the room.

          A livid General Hux was kneeling on a carpet, hands up, lips curled like a snarling dog.  A familiar object sat on a low table before him.  A lightsaber hilt.  But Hux was no Knight.

          “Nice collection you have here,” Hataska burbled.  Tyrion, who’d already noticed the odd quality of the light, realized that it came from an array of other sabers.  These blades were lit—blue, green, and purple—and suspended in individual glass cases: the only source of light for whatever Hux had been doing.

          “He was trying…!”  Rose couldn’t stop giggling.  “Of Force!  He was trying to call the blade!”  Her aim wavered—and Hux leapt to his feet, a black-gloved hand held towards her like a command.

          “Give me your weapon!” Hux ordered. 

          Rose only laughed harder.

           “That’s not how the Force works!” She aimed her blaster and shot a hole in Hux’s carpet.

          “Insolent scum!” Hux recoiled, clutching his clawed hand to his chest.

          “He was trying to use the Force?” Tyrion asked.

          “He has no spark,” Kinvara murmured.  “The fire will not speak to him.”

          “You can, though.”  Rose waved the priestess forward.  “Let’s get this over with.  I want out of here.”

          “As you wish,” Kinvara said—and Hux went another shade of pale as she sauntered towards him in a swish of diaphanous skirts. 

          “You will execute evacuation protocol,” she said, the hypnotic flame flowering in her palm once more.  “Everyone is to leave the ship.  Go.  Call it in.  Now.”

          Hux’s grimace relaxed around the edges.  He turned and moved stiffly to a metallic console.  The weird light of the green and purple sabers shone on him as he punched some buttons and, after a moment, his disembodied voice filled the room.

          “THIS IS GENERAL HUX SPEAKING.  EXECUTE PROTOCOL 66-529…”  As further instructions deafened him, Tyrion noticed Kinvara return to Hataska’s side. 

          “I did well?” the priestess asked the Knight. 

          Hataska nodded.  “Perfect, Lady.”

          Kinvara settled on her heels with a smile of catlike contentment.

###

The droids arrived as they were tying Hux up and stuffing him into his own wardrobe. 

          “We’ll throw him in an escape pod once we break atmo,” Rose said, absently patting BB-8.  The orange-and-white ball chirruped in obvious mirth, startling BB-39, who was doing the same thing.  It didn’t seem to matter if you were Order or Resistance: nobody respected the unlucky Hux.

          “All right, what now?” Tyrion asked. 

          “Artoo,” Rose said, “access the mainframe.”

          The blue-and-white droid made a series of musical beeps and glided over to the rounded table with its ghostly, suspended maps.

          Holo, Tyrion remembered.  Like the books on Mustafar.  This one flickered as “Artoo” connected a metal appendage to the table.  The images began to flash as if the droid were riffling through a book.

          “We made sure all the cargo holds were locked tight, Mistress Rose,” the golden droid, Threepio said.  “The dragons will not be harmed while in transit, and—perhaps more importantly—will not escape to melt us down.”

          As the droid spoke Tyrion suddenly realized who the golden creature reminded him of.  Seven hells! he thought.  It’s Maester Pycelle!  The dithering quality of the droid’s voice!  Ingratiating! Cowardly!

          He snorted laughter and turned away.

          “Now what?” Rose Tico asked him suspiciously.

          “Oh nothing,” Tyrion grinned.  “That fellow reminds me of someone I used to know.”

          “He reminds me of my uncle Murran,” the girl said flatly. 

          “I see,” Tyrion said, solemnly.  “This Murran…Was he a bit…hapless?”

           Rose nodded.  “Tripped over a street-vendor once.  Set his pants on fire.  His own pants.  Not the vendor’s.”

          “My uncle Kevan had a similar accident,” Tyrion said. 

          “Oh?”

          “Yes.  He too was on the wrong side of some flames.”

          Rose’s eyes widened.  “Was it a dragon?”

          “Close,” Tyrion nodded.  “My sister.”

          Rose scowled.  “She lit him on fire? That…doesn’t sound very nice.”

          “Neither was she” Tyrion said.  “My brother Jaime was the nice one.  At least to me.”

          “Are they…gone?” Rose asked.

          Tyrion nodded.  “Ten years ago.”

          “I’m sorry,” Rose said.  Something in her soft awkwardness alerted him.

          “You lost a sibling too?”

          “My sister.  Paige.”

          “I’m sorry to hear that,” Tyrion said.  “I assume you had a better relationship with her than I had with mt beloved Cersei?”

          “Paige was the best,” Rose said.  “She sacrificed herself so we could live.”

          “Cersei sacrificed a city so she could live,” Tyrion said.  “She and Hux would have gotten on like Dornishmen and wine.”

          Rose’s scowl deepened.  “I don’t know what that means,” she said, “but your Galaxy sounds pretty terrible.”

          “Terrible—and beautiful,” Tyrion said.  “Like anywhere else where humans live.”

          “Lousy, beautiful town,” Rose murmured—but before Tyrion could ask what that meant, the droid himself, Threepio, approached them.

          “Mistress Rose,” the droid said, ignoring Tyrion.  “Artoo has finished communicating with the ship.  All approved lifeforms are on board and we’ll be ready to jump in exactly five minutes.”

          As if to confirm this statement, the Steadfast shifted.  They had done it.  They were on their way.

          “This is kinda exciting,” Rose Tico said.  “Stealing an entire star destroyer!”

          Tyrion agreed.  For him it was even more so: like stealing an entire city.

          A flying city, he thought.  A city hurtling past the stars...

          His stomach shuddered at the thought.

          He bid Rose a quick farewell and waddled off to ask Hataska for one of the Knight’s blue phials.

Chapter Text

Leia

They came to the temple grounds at dawn. 

          The pale light glared across the misty grasses, still green despite a hard patina of frost.  Though it was winter on this side of Lothal, Leia sensed a great thriving beneath the cold.  The feeling struck her as soon as they passed into the open, Jon Snow and the great white Loth-Wolf leading them to this strange and sacred place.

          At first it seemed as if the plain was empty.  She saw only blurred sunlight as Poe and Finn helped her dismount her wolf.  The huge beasts were surprisingly soothing transports.  She’d dozed a bit as they ran, her dreams of happier days.  Ben, when he was just learning to walk. Han before he got ready to leave.  They’d been laughing at a swarm of turquoise butterflies that Han claimed to have stolen from a gang of bounty hunters (really, they were a token of remembrance shipped from Naboo on the anniversary of Padmé Amidala’s death).  As her vision cleared, however, she saw there was more to her surroundings.  A pair of large circles had been cleared a small distance off.  Connected by a slender bar like the dowels used to connect models of planetary systems, each bore patterns: faded mandalas.

          A feeling radiated from them.

          “This is the source.”  Leia clutched Finn’s arm tightly.  The young Jedi-in-training nodded.  The Force of Lothal was centered here.  They were literally on top of it.

          Jon Snow and Rey had already dismounted.  They stood facing the sun at the edge of the first circle.  The Loth-wolves had reformed behind the humans, only Snow’s old dire wolf abstaining.  The threadbare animal huddled close to Snow, who petted him absently as they stood in the sharp morning breeze.  In a moment, Rey’s hand floated to the snowy fur, neither she nor Snow seeming to mind as their hands brushed in passing.

          Interesting, Leia thought.  In the three days since Snow had rescued them, she’d formed a theory.  It made sense the dragon queen had found her way to Kylo Ren while Snow had been pulled to Rey.  Their natures and powers were similar, never mind Snow’s red lightsaber and dark clothes.  In his world he was a humble warrior, fighting for freedom instead of power, while pale-haired Daenerys had become wrath and fire, not unlike a certain smuggler’s son.  These “Westrosi” claimed no knowledge of the Force, but Leia felt it working through them. 

          “Finn?” Leia pulled her coat close against the cold.

          “Yes, General?” the young man said.

          “You ever think it might be easier being a Sith?” 

          Finn stiffened. Probably thought she’d gone dotty.  “What makes you say that?” he asked.

          Leia nodded towards Jon Snow.  “When I think what my son could have been, I want to burn the galaxy down.  Starting with Palpatine.”

          “I get that,” Finn said, quietly.  “Your son isn’t the only kid Palpatine stole.”

          “Force sensitives,” Leia said.  “All of it to resurrect that old monster.”  She sighed and gave Finn’s arm another squeeze.  “It’s a good thing Rey’s teaching you instead of me.”

          Finn patted the lightsaber at his belt.  Luke’s.  Rey had passed it on after forging her own, golden blades.  Finn was a more-than-worthy successor. Like Rey, he’d taken to that blade like water to rain.

          “What’s that?” Rey asked as they reached her side.  This was it.  Snow and Rey, Poe and Finn, and her.  Poe loitered uncomfortably behind Finn.  Probably feeling weirded out by all the mystical hoohaw.  But Leia was sure even he could feel it: the deep pulsing of the planet, amplifying the life all around them.

          “We’re just wishing we had killer lightning powers,” Finn replied.  “Burn Palpy to a crisp and go play some holo-chess.”

          Worry lines formed at Rey’s mouth.  “Are you all right, Master?” she asked Leia.

          “We’re nervous,” Leia added.  “And pissed off.  If I could Force choke Palpatine from here I would.  Instead, I’ve got to raise a forgotten Jedi temple.  I’m beginning to understand why so many people choose the dark side over all this struggling and running around.”

          Rey smiled sympathetically.  “We’re all angry and tired,” she said. “But…”

          “But this is what we’ve got,” Snow finished.  He stared ahead, grim and determined.  Not for the first time, Leia found herself feeling sorry for him.  Though his face and demeanor put him around Ben’s age, he seemed far older than his years.  From what Rey had told her, the young men had faced similar trials: raised by uncles, subjected to supernatural trials. It made her reconsider her recent statement.  If Ben had turned out good, would he have also been this sad?  What was it that had made the difference?

          Oh kriff, she thought.  I can’t think about this now. 

          “Let’s do this,” Rey said.  She unloosed the satchel of texts she’d brought along for consultation and let them slip to the frosty ground.  For a scavenger forced to grow up on Jakku, Rey was surprisingly literate.  Once, Leia had tactfully asked her about it.

          “My mother taught me at little,” Rey had said.  “And Unkar Plutt, so I could fill out…orders.”  She’d glared at the floor and Leia hadn’t pressed her.  However she’d done it, she’d clearly devoured the Jedi texts.

          “The temple on Lothal can only be opened by a Master and padawan working together,” Rey said.  “Somehow, this one got buried, but it was recently enough that I’m hopeful it will respond.”

          “Pretty sure it will,” Finn said.  “I’ve never felt so much of the Force before.”

          “The wolves think it’s important,” Snow said, glancing at the waiting Loth-wolves.  Usually, the beasts beat a quick retreat.  Now they were pointedly sticking around. 

          “The wolves are part of it,” Rey said.  “I think they’re guardians of this place.  In any case, Leia and I are going to try and raise the temple.  If we succeed…well.  I guess we’ll see what happens.”

          “What is supposed to happen?” Poe asked, not unkindly. 

          “We raise it and go in,” Jon Snow said.

          “And then?” Poe asked.

          “Then hopefully we get some answers,” Leia said.  “How Palpatine’s back…”

          “And how to beat his ass,” Finn said.

          Leia nodded.  “Everyone got their comms?  If Rey and I succeed, we may draw unwanted attention.”  A massive surge in the Force would surely be noticed by Kylo Ren—or the lurking Emperor. 

          “Comms are good,” Poe said. 

          “It’s like this, right?” Jon Snow pulled the link on his collar towards his mouth, and everyone winced as their comms crackled with staticky feedback.  Snow’s pet wolf growled before settling again, exhausted-looking, at Snow’s feet.

          “Sorry,” Snow winced, sheepishly.  Then: “If we do get in, I need someone to watch Ghost.”  He bent to scratch the direwolf’s ears, his eyes glancing between Finn and Poe. 

          “Is he friendly?” Poe asked. 

          “If I tell him to be,” Snow nodded.  “Ghost?”

          The wolf whined.

          “I told you to stay behind,” Snow shrugged.  “You didn’t have to come with me through that portal.  You could be nice and safe with Arya back home.”

          The wolf snorted as at a ridiculous suggestion, then got up and padded slowly towards Poe.

          “Hey whoa!” Poe exclaimed.  “I like creatures just fine but….oh.  Oh, hey.  Okay.  Nice buddy.”  The wolf plopped down, nearly on Poe’s shoes, and fell into a gentle sleep.

          “Who’s Arya?” Leia heard Rey ask.

          “My youngest,” Snow said.  “Ghost is her favorite.”

          There was a pause as Rey smiled at this information, then squared her shoulders and faced them all.  The fur on her hood ruffled briefly in the wind.

          “You’ll all need to move back,” she said.

###

Several moments later as the men watched, Rey and Leia tapped into the Force.  Together, they dived beneath the surface of Lothal, searching for the heart of the Jedi Temple.  

          It might have been hours or merely moments before they sensed the remains of a great, tumbled structure.  It wasn’t only the shape of the stones that told them, but the power, the Force, that moved among them.  Leia sensed a natural land mass had once existed here, but it had been altered, interfered with by men.  There had been some sort of cataclysm that had made what remained of the landmass cave.  The Force itself had buried the temple—sealed it…

          But not for all time.

          It’s been waiting for us, Leia thought.  She sensed Rey’s feelings were much the same.

          Together they felt their way down, combined Force powers picking among the ruins.  There were pieces here.  Fragments.  In need of fitting.  Yet some spoke louder than the others.

          This wall…

          Leia half sensed; half heard Rey’s thought as though they bent together over a scattered puzzle.  The girl—stronger, so much stronger than herself—flicked at something….

          The Force turned golden around them.

          Stars!  Was that Rey or her?  No matter.  They were reaching.  Grasping. Pulling.  In another world, Leia felt the ground tremble beneath her feet, heard shouts of wonder and alarm…

          The triumphant howl of the Loth-Wolves sounded as if celebrating some longed-for event.

          What is it we’ve found? she wondered, between exhaustion and ecstasy.  On one hand she struggled to hold the Force—that vast power she’d learned to harness but seldom wield—and on the other she felt she might have become it: powerful, golden, ancient, eternal…

          No wonder Palpatine lived, she thought.  This wasn’t just defense.  This was resurrection: pulling up and putting together things the galaxy had forgotten

          Stars! She thought.  Stars!  I’m creating a world--!

          There was a magnificent surge before she vanished into light. 

###

When she came to, Jon Snow was holding her, his scarred, young face hovering anxiously.

          “My lady.  General.  Are you all right?”

          “I think so.”  Leia tried to raise her head.  Where there’d been only chilly sky before, a vast wall of natural stone rose at Snow’s back.  Hairline cracks crisscrossed its face, but the figures painted on it were perfectly clear. 

          “Is that…a mural?” Leia asked.

          Snow bent nearer to catch her words over the howling of the Loth-wolves.  The animals were carrying on in a low, insistent chorus that made Snow’s direwolf (at his side again) growl in its throat.

          “Rey thinks it’s a doorway,” he said.  “She and Finn are trying to open it.”

          Leia sagged.  “How long until they do?” Force, she was so tired already.  Why couldn’t these things come pre-opened?

          “I--” Snow began, but then his jaw went slack.  His gaze swept past her to the howling wolves.       

          At that same moment, Leia felt a subtle shift in the Force--but it wasn’t speaking to her anymore. 

          “Help me stand,” she said.

          Snow nodded.  Gently, he lifted her in his arms.  He wasn’t the tallest man, but he made Leia feel tiny.  She leaned gratefully against him as he helped her up and turned with her to watch the howling wolves.

          “By the gods…” he whispered.

          The Loth-wolves formed an orderly line and padded, still howling, towards the newly-raised wall.  Their song rose, changed pitch, floated across the plain as if to welcome some unseen arrival.

          “What are they doing?” Finn asked.  He stood beneath the mural with its three robed figures.  Two male, one female, their faces turned aside.  The woman framed him with her floating, sea-foam robes.

          “They’re helping.”  Excitement lit Rey’s eyes.  It had been a long time since Leia had seen her that way.  That, as much as Snow’s very comfortable arm, convinced her that, whatever was happening with the wolves was benign. 

          One by one, the wolves approached the wall and settled beneath the painted figures.  Their song rose, impossibly sweet and sad…

          And slowly, the mural began to move.

          “Whoa!” said Rey and Finn together.  Even Snow flinched—and Ghost’s hackles rose.

          But when wolfen figures, outlined in gold, began to circle the edge of the mural, Ghost settled and padded forward, wagging his tail like a pup. 

          They’re drawings, Leia thought, yet they seemed alive—sentient as any of the beings howling beneath them.  As they paced around the mural on their illustrated limbs, the three figures

          (…Gods of Mortis…)

stirred and turned to face forward.  Golden circles, thin as veins, began to glow around their heads and illuminate their stylized hands.  The female

          (…Daughter…)

turned forward, hand resting on her hip, while the old man

          (…Father…)

beside her covered his face with his hand.  That left the hairless male

          (…Son…)

in the Sith-like red-and-black, to raise his head from a prayerful position.  Slowly his hairless head looked up and he and spread a black-gloved hand in welcome. 

          As he did, the light turned to rubies around him. 

          The other figures stayed golden.

          The Loth-wolves stopped their howl.

          It is a time for wolves, a great voice said.  Leia thought it was the chief Loth-wolf, but she was too mesmerized to look.

          A red fissure opened at the center of the mural, dividing the Father in half, sending the siblings in opposite directions.  The Loth-wolves retreated as stately as they’d come, their painted avatars continuing their race around the wall. 

          By Jon Snow’s side, Ghost whined: a sound that mingled trepidation and longing.   There’d been a good feeling for a moment, but now the light was ruby red and the Force was shifting once again.

          “It’s close,” Snow whispered to himself.  Leia was almost certain that he meant “home.”  But maybe that was only her own bias speaking—for as she blinked against the red light, her own sense of home was strong.  It wasn’t a place.  Home was never a place to her.  It was a person.  Family.  An extension of herself.

          It was Ben.  Ben Solo.  Kylo Ren.  It was the child she’d nursed and raised and failed.  She could sense him beyond the great red light, the light like the explosion of a huge, red star.

          He was in there, somewhere, beyond the portal.

          In there.  In the light.

          He was in trouble.

Chapter Text

Kylo

He woke to the sound of his dragon dying somewhere behind him in the whirling snow.  When he managed to sit up, white layers tumbled off him, the white so intense he thought for a moment he’d gone blind.

          When he could see again, he laughed.  Deep inside himself, he laughed.  Imagine.  Kylo Ren.  Dying in white.

          The laughter didn’t last.  Nor did his numbness.  Nor the deafness affected by the steady drone of the wind.  He grew aware of the painful noises behind him and, though each move was agony, he managed to turn his body towards them.

          He’d fallen at the foot of a frozen cliff, in a thick drift of snow that had saved his life. The golden dragon had fallen near him, but it was bleeding out, throat sliced too cleanly for stone.  Instead, icy shards tinkled under Kylo’s feet as he hauled himself towards the dying animal.

          Those spears, he thought.  He hadn’t felt the strike but surely only one weapon could have made that wound. One weapon, and one creature--

          He whirled suddenly—a premonition—igniting his blade.

          The red of the lightsaber bounced off the snow, unable to penetrate the storm.  Even so, Kylo knew he wasn’t alone.  After a moment, they came: the staggering shapes.

          Fuckers, Kylo thought.  He put his back to the dragon as a ragged once-human stormtrooper waded jerkily towards him.  A few savaged noblemen stumbled behind it.  Five?  Six?  Hard to tell.  Everything hurt.

          But I’m strong.  He jammed a fist into his side, into the scar tissue where Chewie’s bowcaster had struck him two years and a world ago.  How odd to remember the Wookie now.  Remember his father’s hand slipping gently from his cheek…

          “FUCKERS!” The pain fueled his swing as he lunged for the ‘trooper, cutting it easily in half.  A spray of red sparks hissed against the snow.  He thrust the torso away and lashed out at the next wight: some humanoid thing in crushed blue velvet that reached for him with lacquered claws.  No way to tell what race the thing had been. Its face was a ruin below the nose.  Its ice-chip-eyes glared before he took its head off and gleamed a few seconds more as the skull tumbled away.

          Kylo lost track after that.  The slow, shambling things were only a challenge because of his recent freezing in the snow.  He’d gouged his back on something, twisted a leg—all minor injuries exacerbated by the terrain.  His attacks were less sleek and more labored, but it all came to the anticipated end.  Soon enough, the wights    

were shapeless mounds, dead again.  With no more threats to occupy him, he turned to the dragon.

          She was golden and beautiful and dying, gazing at him with dark amber eyes.    He had thought to perform a mercy killing but, as he adjusted his saber, his knees buckled.  It wasn’t pain.  It wasn’t even awe (though he felt it keenly) at her beauty.  He was amazed to find the anger he’d summoned for the wights reshape itself into something more difficult. The heat that rolled from those golden scales pulled at something in his chest.  A warm—and a terrible kind of hope flickered.  As a man, he had felt it exactly once. 

          He’d been standing in the smoking remains of a throne room, extending his hand to a willowy girl.

          “No.”  He couldn’t think on that now.  The dragon blinked sadly, eyes liquid.  The snow had melted where its blood had pooled.  It growled in pain, then offered him its neck.

          Please help me.

          And he remembered:

          Join me.  Please.

          A helpless sound escaped his throat.  He raised the saber, despairing, then lowered it again.  He couldn’t kill this magnificent thing.  He didn’t want it to die.  He wanted it to be healed.

          Teeth clenched to keep another cry from escaping, he approached and touched his glove to the scales.  Thought warm, the dragon’s head was sinking, the eyes beginning to roll as if to ask why he prolonged its torment.

          Don’t die, Kylo thought.  Please.  Don’t die.  He had to stop this.  He couldn’t—would not—let it happen.

          Please, he thought.  Please.  He closed his eyes, felt the cold rush away as the Force beat inside him. He could kill a man, couldn’t he, with his mind?  If he could do that, couldn’t he mend as well?

          His thoughts chased themselves round and round, bringing fragments of his mother and his Jedi training.  Skywalker had encountered Force-healers, some not even human, or even great in strength.  His mother, too, had spoken of this.  Perhaps it had been an avenue she’d abandoned.

          All of this was in his mind as he willed the Force into a different shape.  Usually, he visualized a dark, knotted snarl, like a twist of brambles, or a frayed lash  Now he forced those images to lighten and smooth, to move gently instead of seizing and taking.      

          He felt part of his life-force flicker, moving out of his body and into the beast.  Weakness gripped him.  A price he was willing to pay.  Gently, forgetting everything, he guided the Force to the dragon’s wounds.  He felt the beast’s pain a moment, the raw edge of its fear, and this angered him enough that the Dark Side woke and snarled.  The beast snarled too, and beat its wings, but the equilibrium between them had shifted.  Kylo was now much closer to death, but the beast was growing stronger.  Its wound was healing.

          Stars! he thought in childlike wonder.  His own life-force was binding the wound!  The dragon’s heart beat stronger as its blood was renewed, no more scalding drops falling on the snow.  In a moment, Kylo was back on his knees, his forehead resting against the dragon’s side.  He felt dizzy, close to unconsciousness.  But he had healed the beast!  If he could mount it, they could escape…

          The thought had barely cleared his mind when he heard the crunch of snow behind him.  Suddenly, the dragon lifted away, screaming in alarm and then, in a sound he’d grown to recognize, gulping in air as it prepared to vent its fire.

          Fucking frozen death troopers, Kylo thought.  He reignited his blade and brandished it at an oncoming figure. Unlike the others, this revenant was dismayingly steady on its feet.  It was also sturdy and as tall as he was.  Scalding blue eyes beamed at him like lasers as it glared down at him through the gloom.

          Is it getting dark, or am I? Kylo wondered—but, at that moment, the dragon attacked.  The new monster was drenched in a waterfall of fire as the dragon hovered over it, beating her wings.  The heat, which Kylo was far enough back to enjoy, thawed the numbness that had been spreading through him.  It revived him just enough to gloat.  It served these wights right, for daring to harm such magnificent creatures. 

          The dragon’s fire blew out.

          The imposing monster remained. 

          Unburnt.

          Am I dead already? Kylo wondered. People close to death hallucinated.  Surely that’s what was happening now as the dragon screamed and rose for a second attack.

          The tall monster tilted its chin to follow the dragon.  The snow blew darker (perhaps it was evening now) making finer details hard to see, but Kylo thought the thing smirked as it reached to pull an ice spear, not from a scabbard, but from thin air.

          NO! Kylo hurled the thought at the dragon—a panicked order for it to flee.  The huge wight (and perhaps it was no wight at all.  Perhaps it was something much more terrible) raised the spear and hefted it over one shoulder, still smirking that interminable, blue-tinged sneer—

          NO! Recklessly, Kylo charged, swinging his blade in a spitting red arc.  Dragon fire hadn’t hurt the monster, but it stumbled as Kylo’s lightsaber sheared off its hand.

          “TAKE THAT YOU ZABRAK-FACED FUCK!” Kylo roared as the hand sailed away, still gripping the spear.  The fuck in question glared ice-blue murder at him, but Kylo felt only mad relief. 

          Go, go, go, he thought at the dragon.  He could already sense the creature streaking back to Theed.  Whatever else happened, he’d saved something precious.

          Now if only he could save himself.

          His vision dimmed around the edges.  He had to steady a hand on his knee to stay upright.  The monstrous wight, in a coat of armor was, indeed, Zabrak-like, though none of that race had ever been so pale.  Also, Zabraks tended to roar, not smirk as this terrible thing     

          (Terrible King, Kylo thought)

did.

          “Come on,” Kylo panted, barely managing to flourish his saber.  He felt as if his life were pouring out through his shoes.  He’d be damned if he’d let this silent brute-King

          (Night King)

know it.  He’d be damned if he didn’t take its head off.

          “C’mon,” he said again. “I took your dragon.  I took it and we’re not finished yet.”

          “Only I say when we’re finished,” the Night King said.

          Kylo’s heart froze. 

          The thing spoke in Palpatine’s voice.

###

The day turned to howling dark around him.  The saber hissed and spit, the only warmth in the world.  Kylo clutched it like a last tether to safety and self as, indeed, it had rather literally become.  Whatever regarded him from the Night King’s eyes, it wanted to devour the galaxy.  Kylo was the only one who could stop it. He, and his storied crimson blade.

          Have to stay conscious, he told himself.  But his bracing arm trembled.  He felt about to fold.

          “Coward,” he snarled at the white, gloating monster.  No wonder the thing smirked with Palpatine pulling its strings.  Daenerys’s had gone rigid when describing this creature and the cold menace Kylo now felt surrounding him.  If Palpatine controlled it, if he embodied it, then he had grown more powerful than any Sith Lord in history.

          Not so powerful he’ll charge me, Kylo thought. 

          “Is this your plan then?” he demanded. “To wait me out?  Here I am.  Here’s that fucking blade you want.  But then, you were always more a spider than a warrior, weren’t you?”

          “Who says I wish to fight?”  The creature folded its hands in a familiar, contemplative gesture.   Kylo recognized it from every man who’d ever trained him, from Skywalker to Supreme Leader Snoke.  Force.  He’d been right to want to destroy them. Sith or Jedi, they were all insufferable.  Lecturing.  Strolling.  Posturing.  He felt some of his fire rekindle, blown to life by his hatred.

          “Your little prophecy,” he spit.  “The Red Blade of Heroes.  A real man would fight me for it.  But you aren’t even a man, are you?”

          “I’m much more than that,” the Night King (Night Thing, Kylo decided) smiled. Eerie to hear Palpatine’s voice on its lips.  The Thing was built like a Darktrooper; its baritone should have shaken the earth.  Palpatine’s patrician accent sounded odd coming from it.  Thin.  Yet plenty unnerving.

          “I’m not going to die,” Kylo swore.  He was drained, but his anger had always protected him.  His vow steadied something at his core: the same rage that had sustained him for half his life.

          “It’s not time for you to die yet, boy,” said the Thing.  “Not time for any of you.  Not yet.  I came here to show you, not to kill you.  Show you what I can do, and what you can be.”

          Despite himself, Kylo flinched as the Thing raised a finger and sliced a long claw through the dim veil of twilight.  A red seam appeared,  unzipping like flesh when slit by the expert cut of a blade.   Intense red light came leaking through.  Blood from some inter-dimensional wound.

          Kylo stepped back as the seam widened, became an opening to some other place.  At first, he thought it was a doorway back to Mustafar, but no warmth or landscape was evident beyond.  It was as if he were staring into the wrong end of a blaster scope as an assassin trained it at his head.

          Then, abruptly, the light dimmed.  The opening darkened to a velvety black.  Kylo shivered in recognition.  Snoke had done this to him, once. 

          “A vergence in the Force?” Kylo snarled.  “All this, to show me more visions?”

          The Thing shrugged.  “You cannot know unless you enter.”

          Fucker! Kylo thought.  It was toying with him.  If it thought to try his patience….

          Well.  It was right.

          With a roar, Kylo summoned the last of his strength and rushed, his blade angled for decapitation.

          Palpatine’s laughter filled his head, but the horrid, icy face barely cracked a smile.  As Kylo met it, the Thing’s blue eyes flickered.  Whatever life was in there had been usurped.  The Night King was dead, just as Daenerys had told him.  Only Palpatine’s magic was keeping it alive.

          Kylo’s feet lifted off the ground.  Despite his hurts and his act of healing, his speed and power were intact.  In his arrogance, Palpatine had reached too far.  The ponderous way the Night King’s turned was proof of that.  Kylo knew his blade would connect.  Knew the white, thorny head would go spinning through the air.  His blood screamed for it.  His heart lusted for it.  He yelled in triumph as he brought the blade down.

          A shock of lightning punched him brutally in the side and sent him hurtling into the vergence.  Palpatine’s laughter followed him into a place of blackness and damp, moist earth.

          “NOOO!” Kylo shrieked.

          He landed on his shoulder.  His saber jolted from his hand and sputtered across the ground.  It didn’t go far.  The ground was familiar.  Damp and earthen and scented with moss.

          It’s the cave, he thought, heart speeding in panic.  The cave on Dagobah where Snoke had tested him before.  Never mind that Kylo had destroyed the place; it had come back.  Bringing back unpleasant things was Palpatine’s new talent.

          The entry to the vergence still burned behind him as he rolled to his feet and snatched back his saber.  Snow drifted in, melting in the warmth of the cave—and the Emperor’s insane laughter harrowed him.

          No you don’t! Kylo ran for the opening—but already the seam was sealing shut.  Before he could reach it, it was gone, and he was alone in the dark, the only sound his labored breathing. 

          He dropped to his knees as his strength left him.  He’d given everything he had to that last swing.  His heart struggled, beating an uneasy rhythm. His head felt light, his body alternately too hot and too cold.  He was out of the snow, but the cave’s heat was narcotic—and if this was really Dagobah, there’d be all sorts of crawling things in here with him. Snakes and lizards and venomous toads.  Skywalker had called it “The Cave of Evil.”

          And now I’m going to faint in it, Kylo thought, vision already fuzzing at the edges.  How in the name of the Force had Palpatine managed it?  Exiling him to a memory?

          Suddenly, the hairs on his nape prickled. 

          Had there been a noise behind him? 

          He whirled, moved by pure instinct, towards a sound, faint as breathing, deep in the dark.

          A red glow began to creep across the earthen walls, softly at first, but quickly blossoming.  The sound whisked closer: someone’s footsteps.  The muffled swish of heavy robes.

          Kylo groaned and tried to get to his feet.  He knew what was coming—but he was spent.  As the kyber-red glow burned towards him it was all he could do to stay upright.

          Why now? he wondered with the detachment of the dying. He’d spent years imaging this meeting, but he’d been younger.  Barely a man.  Every boy, he thought, secretly wanted to vanquish their father (and he had—oh, he had—on that terrible bridge), but young Ben Solo had had mightier ambitions.

          What was Han Solo beside Lord Vader?

          A dark shape moved slowly into his view.  Black and faceless as Death, bearing a saber.  Kylo wondered if that tell-tale hum was why he couldn’t hear the famous breathing.  Everyone knew how Vader breathed—from legend if they’d not encountered him personally. The Sith Lord’s scarred lungs and breathing apparatus made a sound to freeze the blood—and herald your doom.

          “You’re not real,” Kylo muttered.  “This is just a vergence.  I don’t want to fight you anymore…”

          In answer, the dark figure whirled its saber. 

          A second blade leapt to life, red and spinning.

          When did Vader ever use a double blade? Kylo wondered, as the whirling light flashed upon a face. Not the dark, shining mask of his dead grandfather.  A pale face.  Pretty.  With deep, red eyes.

          Kylo Ren tried to scream and failed.

          “Ben,” the apparition whispered.

          It was Rey.

Chapter Text

Rey

The red light faded and Rey let herself relax, releasing her death-grip on Jon Snow’s arm.  She couldn’t remember grabbing him, but she wasn’t sorry, and Snow didn’t seem to mind.

          “By the old gods and the new,” he whispered.

          “Uh-huh,” Rey agreed.  They’d both brought their sabers and, as one, they ignited them.  It seemed the thing to do. 

          They were standing in the middle of a starless sky on a highway defined by thin runners of light.  Other highways branched out above and beneath them, all emanating from a series of door-like portals.  Behind them, their own portal had gone dark as a door shut to enclose a windowless room, but ahead, other portals flickered and shimmered.  Some with colors.  Some with images. Their own highway merged into a central hub: a crossroads with as many spokes as a wheel.

          After Crait, Rey had forged her own lightsaber, using her staff and a hodgepodge of Jedi paraphernalia Leia had kept from various adventures.  The only original thing in the weapon was the kyber crystal, which Rey had found in the remains of Starkiller Base.  The Base—or the planet it once had been—had apotheosized into a star upon destruction, but enough of its debris remained in the Unknown Regions that Rey had been called towards a kyber-containing asteroid.  Like her, the kyber was unusual (Leia would have said “unique”) in the history of the Jedi.  It too came from nowhere, and it glowed a golden hue that remained self-contained no matter what other saber it encountered.  It cut through the traditional blue glow of Luke’s saber (making Finn complain it made his eyes sting whenever they sparred), and it remained so now, neither absorbing nor reflecting, as it blazed away within feet of Jon Snow’s Sith blade.

          “I thought there’d be…stone,” he said, raising the blade like a torch as he investigated their surroundings.  “You raised a temple from the earth, but this is… something else.”

          “A world between worlds,” Rey whispered.  She meant it mostly for herself.  She hadn’t so much formed the thought as plucked it from the thick, fraught air.  Though the strange highway system was still and quiet, a hundred different voices muttered indistinctly all around her.

          “What’s that?” Snow, suddenly swung around, his saber hissing.  “Ygritte?  Rey!  Did you hear…?”

          Rey nodded.  “There are voices. I doubt we’re hearing the same ones.”

          “You didn’t hear a girl’s voice, just now?”

          Rey shook her head.  “No.  What was she saying?”

          Snow laughed.  “Nothing.  She was always saying…Nothing.”  He wobbled a bit as he ventured a few steps down the path.

          “I hear a lot of voices,” Rey said softly, “but I think maybe it’s the doors we need.”  Across the way, scenes and colors flickered in the portals and the voices grew stronger when she focused on them.

          “Aye,” Snow said.  “It would make sense.  That’s how all this madness started.  Which door, though?  There’s hundreds.”

          Or billions, Rey thought, but didn’t say.  She wondered if “billions” was a concept Snow would be familiar with.  His world was more primitive than hers, and yet, from what he’d told her, similar too.

          “Let’s make it to that spot,” she said, pointing ahead to the hub and its wheel- spoke highways.  “It’s clear of the doors.  Maybe quieter.”

          “Then what?”  Snow asked.

          “Then we use the Force.” 

###

They edged on in cautious silence until they stood at the center of the hub.  Rey was beginning to feel how (she imagined) a star felt, all alone in the vast darkness of space.  True, there were the lights and the doors but everything spread out as they neared the hub, the perspective broadening wildly so that things that had seemed close were now very far away.

          At least they were alone, Rey thought. Despite the number of portals, no one else appeared.  She and Leia had only half-heartedly considered what to do if they encountered Palpatine within the temple.  But this world between worlds felt untouched by the Darkside and, for that, Rey was extremely grateful.  She sensed it would be hard enough to figure out what she and Snow were doing here, much less fight a dead Emperor in a completely alien setting.

          “I take it this isn’t what it looked like?” she asked, as she and Snow reached the central hub.

          “Coming through to your world?” Snow asked.  “No.  I was in a weirwood grove.  The heart tree…opened.”

          “Heart tree?”  Rey hadn’t heard this before.  Snow had yet to spell out the exact details of his crossing.  

          “We still pray to them, up in the north,” he said.  “White trees with red leaves.  There are groves called godswoods.”  His hand passed briefly over his heart as if remembering an old pain, but his voice was warm and wistful as he spoke.  Clearly his memories of “godswoods” were pleasant.  “I was standing by one when I hear Bran’s voice and then the heart tree opened its mouth.”

          “Your trees have face?” Rey was fascinated.

          “Carven faces,” Snow said.  “And it’s just the heart tree.  The Children of the Forest carved them.  This one just sort of…opened.  And I stepped through to another world.”  He paused.  “Ghost came after me while I was standing there gaping.  I tried to get him to go back, but we’re stubborn, we Snows.” A small, sad smile, curved his lips.  For a moment, Rey had been certain he’d been about to say a different surname.

          He sighed and switched off his saber.  “Well, anyway.  It didn’t look a thing like this place.  I stepped out of winter and into a castle.  Everything was made of dark stone and there was this huge, glowing….console?  Is that the word?  In the middle.  It had all these lights…”  he paused and laughed.  “Actually, maybe it did look like this.”

          “And that’s when you saw Master Skywalker?” Rey asked.

          Snow nodded.  “He seemed real but I guess he was a ghost.  The only reason I trusted him was he repeated Bran’s message--and when he pointed back to where the godswood had been, there was an opening into summer.”

          “And that’s when you sensed the Force?” Rey asked.

          Snow nodded.  “Which means all of this should be easy.”

          For a second, Rey didn’t understand.  Then she laughed. Jon Snow had made a joke.  Little as she knew him, she understood that he didn’t do that very often.

          He killed the woman he loved, she reminded herself.  It sobered her a little, but Snow’s pained, honest face made her strangely happy.  He too had struggled with the dark inside him and here he was, still here.  Still trying.

          She hung her saber back on her belt and held out her hands.  Snow’s rough, calloused fingers enclosed hers.

          “Skywalker said to bring me here,” Rey said.  “And we think that Kylo Ren and Daenerys Targaryen have the sword we need.”

          Snow nodded.  They’d discussed this before.

          “We also know,” Rey went on, “that you can touch the Force because you can communicate with the Loth-wolves and Ghost.  So.”

          “So,” Snow agreed.  “We use that Force to reach out. See if we can find the blade.”

          “Yes,” Rey said.  “If it helps, I always take a few deep breaths?”

          “Seems right,” Snow said. 

          They closed their eyes.

###

Rey never knew what Snow saw, but, for her, the surroundings remained unchanged.  She watched herself and Snow, standing together, meditating in the middle of the infinite dark.  More indistinct voices came to her, and she let herself float in and among them.

          At last, she heard ones she recognized.   Snow’s voice.  Leia’s voice.

          And Palpatine’s.

          She will raise the blade!

          SHE WILL RAISE THE BLADE! 

          The Emperor’s voice echoed distantly as if trying to fill some cavernous chamber.  A chorus of dark voices echoed his.  It gave Rey a chill to the tips of her toes.

          She will approach the throne.

          SHE WILL APPROACH THE THRONE!

          “Guess we’re going that way.”

          Rey’s astral self shrieked.

          Abruptly, she came out of her trance to find Jon Snow gazing down a length of highway—not one immediately connected to their hub, but (she could sense through the Force) one of several interconnected branches. 

          “You nearly killed me!” she admonished Snow.  But this time he didn’t respond to her.  Whatever he’d seen he’d done it faster than she had.  He all but bounced in place with the need to be off.

          “I heard that voice,” he said, striding forward.  Rey kept pace beside him, thankful for her longer stride.

          “Palpatine?” she asked.

          “’She will approach the throne’,” Snow grated.

          “That’s right!” Rey said.  “He said the same thing to me.”

          “It came from there.” Snow pointed along the pathways—and unclipped his red Sith blade from his belt once more.  The red light soon hummed to an answering glow as, along the paths, a doorway beat and eerie orange-and-red. 

          AND WITH THE FORCE OF HER HATRED…!  Palpatine’s voice raged.  WITH THE FORCE OF HER HATRED, SHE WILL MAKE THE SACRIFICE!

           As the chorus of voices repeated his words, Rey felt herself pulled faster towards the portal.  Other doorways flicked by and Snow’s robes blew behind him as Westrosi and Jedi approached the screaming.  The source-portal was more like a wound than a door, as if someone had gouged a blade through a piece of sailcloth.  Vicious red light poured in on them, stinging their eyes as they squinted forward.  The roaring voices mingled with a deranged clamor that, only slowly, did Rey recognize as the sounds of heated battle.

          Slowly, the burning light faded enough that they could make out the scene within the portal. 

          Snow cried out and clutched at his heart.

          For a moment, Rey doubted her own mind. 

          A trick, she thought.  Force, it has to be a trick.

          But no.

          “This is the future.”  She gripped Snow’s arm.  Her companion struggled, trying to enter the portal, reaching towards the woman with the long, pale hair. 

          What is this place? Rey wondered, but part of her recognized it like the memory of a dream.  A great cavern--but also a great, shattered room—spread before her, centered on a throne.  The light playing over the chair’s jagged edges was red, red, red from a terrible star.  The great orb was bearing down on the planet, upsetting the gravity, creating lightings and energies.   But though the whole chamber

          (cave?)

was alive with sparks and fire, its temperature was the brilliant cold of ice.  Rey glimpsed mounds of snow piled in the corners, glimpsed frozen corpses pierced by ice-crusted spears.

          Those were not the only bodies.  Some—her own, for example—had been warm mere moments before.

          “Gods no!  Dany!” Snow pleaded.  Only grim determination kept Rey holding to his arm. She couldn’t let him go into that chamber, no matter who she saw within.

          Yet in the mad streak of stars and fire, it was her own body she could not look away from.

          She was alone: a gray shape at the foot of the throne, the hole still smoking where a saber had pierced her heart.

          Daenerys Targaryen stepped over her, Kylo’s blade in her hands as she approached Palpatine.

          In both the portal and the strange vergence of highways, Jon Snow screamed Daenerys’s name.  In both he tried to go to her, only to be arrested by someone holding him back.  Rey noted a small shape hanging on him in the vision, but she was already searching for other faces.  Was Finn or Poe there, among the dead?  Was Leia?

          Where was Ben Solo?

          Then, as if the vision were a badly built hut, balanced too long on a shaky foundation, the whole thing collapsed in plumes of darkness; the red light snapping off, the roar of battle going tinny.

          As Rey and Snow stood gaping at it in horror, another portal opened near them and Kylo Ren came stumbling through.

Chapter Text

Kylo

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” she asked him.

          Kylo shook his head, wordless.  He could have wished himself dead.         

          “But it is.”  Rey smiled, still whirling the saber. The red light spoked between them like propeller blades.  “You wanted me to join you in darkness.  Well.  Here I am.  How does it look?”

          Even in his dying, hopeless brain, Kylo had to admit: it looked good.  Rey had always been pretty.  Now she’d obtained a special red-lipped glamor.  Even her crimson eyes, like an echo of Daenerys’s, emphasized the thick fringe of her lashes.  Each blink seemed unnervingly slow and seductive, as if she were stripping his clothes away with her mind.

          He fought the urge to swoon as the blood rushed to his groin, leaving very little behind to enliven his brain.     

          “C’mon, Ben,” crooned the new, dark Rey.  Abruptly her blade stopped moving.  She held out her hand.  “Don’t be afraid,” she said to him.   

          Her teeth were shark’s teeth: metallic and cruel.

          Kylo’s hand twitched at his side.  Instinctively, he wanted to reach for her.  There’d been times in the years since she’d fled from Crait when he’d felt his need of her like a physical hunger.  Nights so long and deep with sleeplessness he’d thought he was going insane.  It wasn’t right that he should rule the galaxy but be unable to subdue one girl.  She should have been with him as Daenerys was now: his partner and lover, his warrior and queen.  They should have bestrode the stars like gods.  With such power, Palpatine would not have dared to resurface.

          He did though, Kylo thought.  And he sent me here.  Into this dark pocket of his own mind.  Kylo had destroyed this cave.  Therefore, none of this could be real.

          “It is, though,” the new Rey smiled.  “Or it will be.  Once our Emperor is done.”

          “Our…what?”  Force, his head hurt. 

          “Our Emperor,” Rey said.  “He wants us to be together.” 

          Since he had, impossibly, failed to take her hand, she moved her white fingers to touch his jaw.  A silvery chill shimmered through his body as though a thousand snowflakes had settled on him at once.

          He groaned.  Was this pleasure?  Was this death?  Perhaps he had died and was lying under the snow on Naboo.  Perhaps he’d saved no one.  Revived no dragon.  Except, Palpatine had said he wanted him alive.

          “We do,” Rey whispered.  Her breath was cold on his lips.  An indication, if he’d needed it, that all this was a lie.

          Not to kill you, but to show you, Palpatine had said. 

          “We can be together, Ben,” she whispered.  “Forever.  In the dark.”

          A vision flickered.  Not of the cave, but of his own mind.  A vast throne. The two of them seated in darkness.  A red star brooded over their heads and he knew that all worlds were theirs to call home.

          Between them was the red-cross blade, like an omen, humming with luxuriant evil.

          Suddenly, he understood what was happening.

          Surprising even himself he lunged upward.

          “You’re.  Not.  Her,” he roared in her face.  His dark tormentor only got a step before he caught her arm.  As with the dragon he could feel her lifeforce—but this was a creature he didn’t intend to heal.

          He drew on her, instead.  Pulled her flickering life into him—

          And recoiled as the chamber itself seemed to howl.

          NOOOO!

           It was Palpatine’s voice, of course.  The puppeteer shrieking over the loss of his toy.  For just an instant, Kylo thought he saw that throne again, that red star (though farther off.  Not yet the giant it would become).  Palpatine’s furious shrieking made it hard to think.  In hopes of stopping it, Kylo rammed the blade through Rey’s stomach.

          The scream died—but the rage transferred to her.  A flash of rage washed over her lovely, stricken face.

          Then her white hands fumbled and clamped down on his own.  She pulled them closer until they rested against the heat of her core.  Kylo felt where the hilt of his saber met her flesh. Felt, with his knuckles, each fiber of her robe.

          He felt too, his own lifeforce kindling again, banishing the weak fog the Emperor’s spell had made of his mind.  It gave him the confidence to lean into the vision.  To scream his defiance into Rey’s upturned face.

          “You can’t take it from me, can you?” he grated at her.  “I have to give it to you, right?  Because prophecy.”  Improvising, he gave his saber a savage twist, but the dark Sith Rey only grinned with her iron teeth.  Her expression was the knowing grin of a goddess preparing to devour her supplicant.

          “Give it to me,” she crooned, almost sweetly.  She pulled him closer until he could almost see Palpatine looking out of her eyes.  But Palpatine wasn’t here—not in flesh, though he’d given part of himself to make this prison.  This whole thing was a cage, a well laid trap.  One that Kylo would be stuck in if he started to believe it.  That was the stupid old codger’s plan: trap him, and his magical sword, in this dark illusion until it was time.

          “If you actually knew anything about me,” he snarled, “you’d know I don’t want you anymore.”  He shoved her away—and she folded over in a crumpling of white limbs and dark, floating robes.  She was beautiful, yes.  Desirable, yes.  But—

          “Ohhhhhh.”  The knowing smile only grew brighter.  “Have you decided to join the Light then, Ben?  That’s fine.  That might even last a few minutes.  But it won’t save you.”  She smiled.  “And it won’t save her.”

          The outline of her form squirmed against the ground as the vision metamorphosized.

          The hood of the robe fell away, her tight-bound hair coming loose as it had been at their last encounter.  In a moment, the terrible Sith queen was gone, and the girl he yearned for crouched before him in irreparable pain. This time, the hand she held out was bloody.  Blood ran from her mouth, spread from the wound he’d given her.  “Ben, why?” she cried, weeping, dying—and when he looked at his saber its light was dimmed with her blood. 

          “This will happen,” she assured him.  Then collapsed into nothing.

          The vergence began to fail.

          Only the vaguest notion drew Kylo forward, leaping the space she’d filled, stumbling towards where the entrance of the cave should have been.  Very distantly he felt something pulling him on—the way one might feel their clothes snagged on a spider’s thread.  Not Palpatine. Palpatine wanted him here.  That was enough to make Kylo follow.

          The cave rumbled.  Skittering things were underfoot.  The smell remained, the same old roots and mosses tripping up his progress.  He began to think that maybe he’d been caught after all.  That he’d just keep running and running and find himself in the same place.  But a damp wind blew behind him and he feared to stop.  Feared to turn to see what was happening to the vergence.  And then, just when all his hope seemed lost, he leapt a root and saw before him the strangest thing of all. 

          There was a different opening where the cave mouth should have been.  A perfect, elegant oval as if carved by a machine.  Beyond was a massive…emptiness, yet filled with hundreds of similar portals…

          Dany! He heard someone say and, for the second time in moments, feared he’d gone completely mad.

          Still, the vergence churned like floodwaters at his back.  He shouted.  Held tightly to his blade.  No more blood on it.  That illusion was dead, at least.  But where was this new place?  What was he hurtling towards?

          Abruptly he tumbled out onto a preternaturally smooth surface—one he would have hesitated to call a floor.  His impact made no sound but he rolled over and over, long cloak tangling him unceremoniously in its rich, snow-dampened folds. 

          By the time he ripped it off his head, the other two people in the chamber were standing over him.  They bore sabers—and one was, indeed, a double blade. 

          It glowed as she did, golden in his sight.

          Kylo groaned.  He’d thought that dark Rey—or dead Rey—was bad, but this was significantly worse. Not only was she real and staring daggers at him, but the man beside her could only have one name.

          “Snow,” Kylo said.

          “Ren,” returned the other.

          Then they flew at each other, sabers activated.

Chapter Text

Finn

“How much longer you think they’re going to be?” Poe asked him, his teeth chattering as he pulled his thermal blanket tighter.  It had been three days since Rey and Snow had vanished into the portal, and the weather hadn’t gotten any warmer.

          “No idea,” Finn replied.  “We gotta trust--”

          “Ugh—no!” Poe said.  “If one more person tells me to trust in the Force I’m going to put a blaster to my head.”

          “Don’t say that!” Finn snapped.  The awful dream he’d had a few days back was still lurking at the edge of his mind.  Poe, face down in some forsaken throne-room where the light was that endless, evil red.

          “I’m just kidding,” Poe said, taken aback.  Finn cursed himself for revealing too much—then wondered why.  Other than Rose (who might be dead), Rey (who was trying to train him in Jedi detachment), and everyone in the rebel encampment (who’d be appalled at his sudden abandonment of everyone’s favorite mechanic), whose opinion was there to worry about?

          “Stop kidding and help me get this tent up,” he grumbled.  Beside him, Chewie roared in agreement.  Fur or no fur, the Wookie hated being cold.

          When it became clear that Rey might be awhile, Leia had convinced the Loth-wolves to carry her back to Jon Snow’s cave.  From the way the wolves had loitered at the edge of things, they might have been waiting for her decision.  Poe had gone with her, and they’d returned several freezing hours later with the surviving Resistance members and several of the Alliance-era crates.  A small camp now huddled up against the resurrected temple which, while eerie, also provided shelter from the wind…

          Part time.

          And the rest of time it blows the damn tents over the moment you try and stretch your legs.  Finn finished jabbing one of the fallen poles back into the earth.  Not as easy as it sounded since the earth was approximately the same temperature as Starkiller base.

          That thought did not improve his mood.  He paused, sighing, leaning on the pole, remembering all the sad and terrible things that had happened on Starkiller.  And Takodana.  And Lothal.  And all the terrible things that were going to happen when the red star rose on Exegol. 

          “It’s going to be okay, Finn.”  Poe had noticed his expression.  “Rey will come back.  We’ll find Rose and Beebee, and pretty soon, Artoo will be making trouble and Threepio will be boring us to death with his calculations.”  Chewie roared and Poe nodded.  “And we’ll beat the pants off the Emperor just like the Rebellion did.”

          Finn snorted.  In his current mindset, the words sounded as hollow as the wind.  “What if none of that happens?” he asked.  “It took an army and two Jedi to defeat Palpatine last time—and the bastard just came back even stronger than before.”

          “They didn’t have us last time,” Poe said—and there was something rough and resolute in his tone.

          “Us?” Finn laughed.  “What—a bunch of refugees?”

          “A damn good Jedi and the galaxy’s finest pilot,” Poe said.

          Chewie roared.

          “But you were there last time,” Poe told him.  “Just not in the room where it went down.”

          The forced levity was finally too much for Finn.  “Why does everything have to be a joke with you?” he said.  “I’m a padawan—if that’s even a thing anymore—and Palpatine would Force-crush any pilot, no matter how good.”  He glared and braced his back against another torrent of wind.  “You shouldn’t go anywhere near Palpatine,.”

          Poe mirrored him, setting his shoulders back.  “Are you saying we should just give up?”

          Finn opened his mouth without knowing what he might say—then felt the fine hairs stand up on the back of his neck.  At the same moment, Poe’s look of smoldering challenge fell, replaced by one of shock and dread.  The color went completely out of his face. He might have blended in with the blank, midday sky.

          “Oh fuck,” he said.

          Finn whirled around.  It was the sky itself that was the problem.  More to the point, the thing that hovered there.  A very large, very familiar, Star Destroyer.

          “Get Leia,” Finn managed. Not that that would save them.

          “Yuh-huh,” Poe said—but Leia was already there.  Her tent was close, and she came hobbling out of it, bracing herself on a metal crutch she’d retrieved from one of the crates.

          “Can you sense Rey at all?” she asked Finn.

          Finn shook his head, tears of frustration welling in his eyes.  This was the end—at least of them. It was the best and worst of luck that Rey and Snow were hidden.  They’d survive to reach Exegol—but with nothing left of the friends they’d fought for.

          Not that we were chummy with Jon Snow, he thought, but, at that moment, there was movement from the Destroyer.

          Behind Finn, the remaining Resistance—all nine of them—emerged from their tents brandishing weapons.  Wrobie Tyce rushed to Leia and murmured something in her ear.

          “Do it,” the General nodded—but her voice was grim.  There were a few thermal detonators in the rescued crates but nothing that could do more than damage a couple TIE fighters.  At best, Wrobie would have some way of launching that sort of weaponry.  It might buy them a whole three seconds.

          But when the movement from the Destroyer solidified, it wasn’t TIE fighters.

          It was the dragon.

          “Get behind me,” Leia said.  The Force hummed around her.  Not strong enough, Finn thought.  The General had never fully recovered from Kylo Ren’s attack during the evacuation from D’Qar.  He stepped close to her thinking she must want his help opening the temple—but she shook her head.

          “We can’t go in there.  Whatever is happening in there, we can’t interrupt it.”

          “But General!” Poe protested.  “There’s no other escape!”

          “What about the wolves?’ Finn asked.   

          “The wolves are out of this,” Leia said. Indeed, when Finn looked, the animals they were gone again.

          “Dammit, dammit, dammit…” Poe muttered.  Chewbacca was howling.  The remaining Resistance drew together in a knot.  Blasters whisked from holsters, a detonator beeped. Heart pounding, Finn drew his lightsaber.  The blue blade glowed against the pale sky. A lot of good it would do when that giant lizard roasted him.

          “This isn’t how I thought I’d die,” he announced to no one in particular.

          “Me either, buddy,” Poe sounded manic.  “Of all the rotten, stupid luck.”

          “Quiet,” said Leia.  She raised her voice.  “If this thing starts breathing fire, give it everything you have.”  There were nods and “yes, General”s, the dragon still not quite in range.  It was coming for them directly now, wings parallel with and nearly touching the ground. There appeared to be more than one person on its back.

          What does she mean if the thing starts breathing fire? Finn wondered.  It struck him that Leia was unnaturally calm.  But perhaps it was just her Jedi training.  As the Force slowly coalesced around her, he realized she was gathering herself to use it as a shield.

          Like Rey, he thought.  Force, he’d never see Rey again.  Never crack jokes with Rose.  Never tell Poe how he felt.

          He glanced sidelong at Poe and found his friend looking back at him with an expression of agonized tenderness.  Even with a stars-be-damned dragon bearing down on him,  Finn felt his heart throb, and  unspoken words surface.

          “Trust in the Force,” Leia whispered.

          Poe’s face melted into a familiar expression of recklessness.

          “Ah fuck it,” he said—and to Finn’s surprise, he felt Poe’s arm cinch neatly around his waist.  He was pressed against the other man’s warmth and muscle, while Poe used his free hand to tug his face close.  “If we’re all gonna die, anyway,” Poe shrugged.  He kissed Finn fiercely on the mouth.

          There was a rush of blood in Finn’s ears.  A brief struggle in his body before he allowed himself to yield.  He was keenly aware of the adrenaline screaming through his system, the slight dampness where his cheek met Poe’s.

          We’re both crying! he thought.  In front of everyone!  But there was no time to care, barely any time to feel.  Almost as soon as Poe had kissed him, the pilot had drawn his blaster and fired over Leia’s shoulder.  The dragon was close enough to hit—but it swerved aside.

          “Hey!” it protested.

          A murmur went through the Resistance.  The dragon landed suddenly, growling, but offering noattack.

          Leia glanced over her shoulder at everyone—and favored Poe and Finn with a raised eyebrow.

          “I told you to trust in the Force,” she said in a “you really should have listened to me” tone of voice.  As Finn reeled in confusion, still snugged by Poe’s arm, he glanced at the dragon—and registered the people on it.  The woman driving the the thing, her hair in a braid, must be the storied Daenerys Targaryen.  There was a curly-haired child holding on beside her, and a tall Knight of Ren with a sturdy pack on his shoulders.  A shining BB-8 was tucked in the pack and, behind that, as they began to dismount, was a shorter woman in a red gown.  She’d been wearing a red veil over her face, but as she slid down from the dragon she tossed it back. 

          Finn’s heart plummeted into his shoes. 

          “Don’t shoot at us!” said Rose Tico.  “Not after I’ve finally unjammed the galaxy!”  She smiled, waving some sort of transmitter, but her face became uncertain as she caught sight of Finn.  Finn realized that Poe had yet to release him.  The pilot hadn’t even acknowledged the chirping BB-8.

          “Finn?”  Rose’s voice trembled.  Finn slid free of Poe but couldn’t manage a smile.  It was too late.  She’d seen them. She’d read their body language.  Rose was sweet—but more than that, she was smart.

          As the Resistance stilled behind him in embarrassed silence, and Rose’s postured drooped into misery, the little boy who’d been holding on to Daenerys’s waist waddled over to stand in the no man’s land between them. 

          A dwarf? Finn thought.  How very strange.  Maybe this was all one awful dream.

          Then the dwarf spoke.

          “Well,” he said cheerfully.  “Isn’t this exceedingly awkward!”

Chapter Text

Kylo

Their sabers came together in blistering sparks, their snarling faces peering murderously into each other.  Though Kylo had expected someone taller, he knew instantly Snow matched him in strength, if not skill.  There were no lightsabers in the other man’s world, so his handling of the saber was awkward, pushing harder than he ought to, compensating for whatever dense, Force-forsaken blade he’d wielded before. 

          Kylo slipped under and around Snow’s attack—and cursed as Snow whirled to block his next strike.  Snow shouldered into Kylo like a bull, sending him stumbling over the bizarre, glowing floor.  Worn with death and resurrection, Kylo’s cross guard saber slipped from his hand.

          The fuck? he thought, numbly.  He’d been in so many realities he was beginning to feel unreal himself.  Before he could call the blade back to his hand, Snow seized him by the throat and dragged him level with his too-good-looking face.

          “What did you do to her?” Snow roared, his close-cut beard fairly bristling with rage.

          He’s got a scar, Kylo’s noted, inanely, but he was being throttled—clearly Snow thought he’d done something to Daenerys. Fine.  Kylo had attacked the man for similar reasons: whatever the dumb bastard had done with Rey.

          Where is Rey? He craned his neck and spotted her, looking flabbergasted a few feet away.  Not exactly the look of someone scared for her lover.  Still, it was impossible she and Snow hadn’t bedded each other. Kylo knew what he’d have done in Snow’s position.

          “If you’re speaking of Daenerys,” he grated through Snow’s chokehold, offering he man his most arrogant smile, “I didn’t do a thing to your little queen that she didn’t beg me for.” 

          Pain bloomed on Snow’s face.  What had the idiot expected?  His grip loosened enough for Kylo to jerk free and summon his saber back to his hand.  He deflected Snow’s next strike and--

          “Oi!”

          Something hit him in the head.

          He discovered himself back on the floor again.  Rey stood over him, her golden saber at his throat. Kylo was forced to reckon with the fact that his Force-soulmate had just kicked him in the head.

          Rey’s chest labored as she looked at him.  She was wearing an odd, padded jacket.  She should have looked ridiculous, but she was as beautiful as ever. 

          Suddenly, Kylo didn’t care if Snow had had her.  He felt only relief that she was alive.

          No thanks to you, asshole, he admonished himself as her saber buzzed below his chin.

          “Give me one reason I shouldn’t shove this through your throat,” she said.

          “And me.”  Snow trundled up beside her.  A red blade joined the golden, and Kylo’s mouth worked.  It was a harder question than it sounded.

          His blade, extinguished in battle, lay beside him. He didn’t reach for it.  Behind Rey, a door-sized portal shimmered.  A red star appeared within it—and a twisted throne…

          “No!” Kylo gasped as the vision coalesced. 

          Jon Snow flicked a cautious glance over his shoulder as Kylo’s jaw unhinged itself.

          “Rey,” he whispered.  “Look...”

          “Seen it.” Rey didn’t turn. 

          “No, Rey…” Kylo pointed ineffectually at the cosmic horrors playing out behind her.  Jon Snow slowly lowered his guard, his face screwed up in agony.

          “I’m not falling for your tricks,” Rey hissed.  “Not after what you’ve put us through.”

          “Rey,” Jon Snow said quietly.  “You have to see this.”

          “No tricks!” Kylo urged her.  “I swear!”

          Quickly, he sent his saber spinning beyond reach, then held up his hands, imploring her with his mind.

          Turn! he begged her.  Turn! Turn!

          Anxiety tinged her expression.  Cautiously, she obeyed. 

          Her gasp of horror echoed through the chamber as, in the portal, her lifeless body slipped from Kylo’s arms.

###

Sometime later they left the astral plane (“the World Between Worlds” as Rey explained it) and emerged back on the colder half of Lothal, the wind biting at Kylo’s face as he plodded numbly into the rebel camp.  After the non-weather of the World Between, he was glad for the wind’s revivifying slap, but he only had a second to revel in it before a roar of engines and voices crashed over him.

          “Gods,” Jon Snow said.  “How long were we in there?” 

          Rey shook her head.  “This is where we went in...”

          Though she’d explained a little of the situation to him, Kylo turned for a look at the remains of the Jedi temple.  The old wall rose majestically behind him, exactly as Rey had described.  Three figures: an old man, a beautiful woman, and some kind of shaven headed Sith Lord, seemed to follow him with painted eyes.

At the base of the temple, a pile of therma-blankets suddenly moved, and any hope Kylo had that he’d exited into a more advantageous reality died. 

          “Rey!” said an exultant FN-2187, leaping up in a shower of silvery cloth.  The traitor had been guarding the temple—and clearly sleeping on the job.

          “Finn!” Rey exclaimed.  “What happened?  How long have we been gone?”

          “How’d you get my kriffing Star Destroyer?” Kylo interjected, jerking his head at the massive object in the sky.

          FN-2187 stiffened.

          “You,” he said

          “Me,” Kylo agreed.  He flinched as a blue lightsaber suddenly blazed between them.  Skywalker’s blade.  The traitor dared to wield it!  Kylo would have reached for his own saber, but he’d allowed Rey to take it—and to bind his hands.  A purely symbolic gesture, of course.  The sash off Snow’s Jedi robes couldn’t hold him.  But, as it would have made for an undignified amount of writhing, Kylo was forced to remain as he was.

          “Where did he come from?” Finn growled, clearly eager to carve Kylo to bits.

          “Naboo,” Rey said.  She gave the “camp” a considering glance.  “Looks like we’ve got enough people to hold him.”

          Kylo felt a sudden emanation of conflict as a smile flickered on Finn’s face. 

          “Rose,” Finn said.  “She stole the Destroyer.  And she unjammed that signal they’ve been using.”  Pride and smugness mingled on his face.  Rey gasped, her Force signal lighting up with relief.  Kylo could only clench his teeth.  Typical.  Leave Hux in charge for a few hours and suddenly the Resistance was revived.

          Reborn, he corrected himself.  Hadn’t Skywalker said that once?  It hadn’t been true on Crait, but it was now.  A city of tents and ships and people had sprung from the prairie.  Abenedoans and Twi’lek rushed past in orange flight suits.  Mech droids hefted crates and consolidated supplies.  A tiny Anzellan went shuffling by, adjusting a pair of goggles, and lugging a too-big-for-it welding torch.  In the early dusk, Kylo saw the torch sputter as the little creature disappeared towards a makeshift landing strip.

          That wasn’t the only fire, either.

          Above, riding the sunset, were the dragons.

          “What--” Kylo started.

          Finn kicked at his heel.

          “Okay father killer,” he said. “Let’s go.”

          “That’s not exactly helpful,” Rey admonished.

          “I’m good with it,” Finn retorted.

          “He agreed to be our prisoner.”  Jon Snow said.  He was gazing at the sky: the circling wings.  The longing in his expression was so intense, Kylo dropped his gaze as if he’d caught the man stepping out of a ‘fresher.       

          “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Kylo muttered.  “I’ll lead the way myself.”  Ignoring yelps of protest, he bulled forward.  He knew where they were taking him. He could feel his mother’s presence at the center of the camp.  Of course she’d be there in the middle of things.  The Middle of Everything was her only real home.

          “Oi! Ren!” shouted FN (gods did he really have to call him Finn?) 2187.

          Kylo’s snit came to a screeching halt as the entire camp turned to look at him.  

          “Ren, here!” Finn called, pointing.  “That’s right!  Kylo Ren!  Number one Renperor himself!”

          “Finn!” Rey punched her friend in the arm and slipped swiftly between Kylo and the mob, but even the presence of the Last Jedi didn’t smooth their vengeful faces.  Maybe Leia’s core people knew Kylo Ren was still needed to stop Sheev Palpatine’s Prophecy of Doom, but these rebels and droids, Twi’lek and Sullustans, all these beings arrived after two years of domination by the Order—they knew only that he was the heartbeat of the monster that had menaced them.

          Kylo was an instant from throwing off his bonds when Rey ignited her lightsaber.

          “No,” she said, calmly.  “Get back.”  It was a Jedi Mind trick to end all others.  The crowd—some of them weighing mech-wrenches or fingering blasters—grew suddenly confused and backed away. 

          Jon Snow plodded up beside Kylo.

          “Was that you?” he asked Rey.

          “We need him alive,” Rey said.

          “Remind me why that is, again?” Finn asked, but he seemed less wrathful.  Perhaps the mob had unnerved him.  Kylo hid a smirk—the coward!—then swore as something white and furry shot past his legs.

          “Ghost!” Snow smiled as he bent to pet, of all Force-damned things, a wolf.  The creature was old and gangly, but also huge. It licked Snow’s hand as the man scratched behind its ears, and gave Finn a headbutt before settling at his heels. 

           “Thanks for watching him,” Snow said. 

          “No problem,” Finn said.  “We’re big pals, me and Ghost.”

          He was sure to address the words to Kylo in a tone of blistering exclusion.

###

Leia’s tent was indeed at the center of the camp. As Rey and Snow led him there, Kylo was noticed again.  Double takes and recognitions bloomed with his passage.  Then a murmuring and a following, began.  Rey used no further Jedi persuasion, but something in the stiff determination of her posture held back the mob.  Snow too, with his wolf, and Finn, with his blaster, didn’t exactly exude a welcoming air.  The crowd followed at a distance, buzzing with currents of wonder and fury.

          Finally, as Leia’s command tent came in sight—a handsome thing upon which the Resistance’s wing-like sigil had been painted in blue—the epithets and rattling of weapons began.

          “Why isn’t he in chains!” someone shouted.

          “Why isn’t he a corpse?” screamed another.

          “Evil fucker!”

          “Child killer!”

          A roll of protein rations glanced off Kylo’s brow.

          Laughter.  A clod of dirt came next, followed by a scattering of stones.  There wasn’t much to throw among the grasslands but people always found a way.

          “All right!” FN-2187 bellowed as a small, broken vaccu-tube bounced off his shoulder.  “Everyone get back to your own business.  We’re taking this man to the General.”

          “You should give him to us!” a woman shouted.  Old she was and worn.  A Tatooine scarecrow.  She spat at FN-2187’s feet and pointed a spindly finger at Kylo.  “We know who you are, black heart!” she yelled.  “Planet killer!  Devourer of worlds!  No tomb is deep or dark enough!  The Force will disown you and cast you into the abyss!”  Her words, as sharp and cruel as glass, held a terrible feeling of prophecy.  Instead of hurling back an insult, Kylo examined her, searching for signs of Jedi sorcery.        

          Meanwhile, the crowd hurled more colorful insults—and began to shout the names of their dead.

          “Remember Hosnian Prime!”

          “Remember Kayla!”

          “My sister!  You blew her up!”

          “My whole family is dead because of you!”

          “Killer!”

          “Devil!”

          “Sith scum!”

          The garbage rained down on him again.  Something hard scored a cut on his unscarred cheek.  He wanted to tear his bonds off and rage at them, to yell at them that Snoke had blown up those worlds.  He’d never personally blown up a planet…

          He’d never personally seen those who’d known the dead either. 

          Inwardly, he cringed as the mob advanced.  He remembered standing on the bridge of The Finalizer as the evil red rays sped towards those dreaming worlds.  A part of him had felt horror, but most of him had been numb as he had trained himself to be since his Jedi training soured.

          That same numbness drifted all around him, curled over him as Rey shoved him towards the tent—

          But when the great, roaring shape came bursting from the tent flap—seven feet tall, seizing him and hauling him over its shoulder--the sudden silence of the crowd pierced him more than their angry shouting had. 

          “Chewie?” he asked, as the noise faded, as the Wookie set him down, scowling-yet-hopeful, on a plush, antique carpet.  The carpet was from Alderaan, Kylo remembered.  His mother’s favorite.  The one that had covered the floor in their flat on Chandrila.

          Chewie roared a muted roar.  An old greeting made bleak with their history.        

          Hello, Ben.

          Kylo felt suddenly shaky.  He glanced away from Chewie, hoping for an anchor somewhere.  But though everyone he’d ever known stood suddenly before him—his mother and Daenerys, looking up from a spread of start charts; that awful pilot, Poe Dameron, Commander Dacy, Kinvara, Hataskaa Ren, those stupid droids his parents always kept around—nowhere was there a friendly face.  Fear, yes.  Pity, yes.  Mocking, from Hataskaa as if this whole thing was a joke.  But there wasn't anyone to turn to—less it be the old Wookie who stood beside him as he fell.

          Kylo Ren, Supreme Leader of the Galaxy sunk to his knees, his face burning with shame.  He only looked up when a hobbling swish of skirts brought with them the familiar clean scent of his mother.

          Leia stood above him, face blank and grave.  The whole assemblage held their breath.

          A strange sound came from Kylo’s throat. 

          “Mother,” he said—and couldn’t think why.

          Chewie rumbled with worry and apprehension as Leia’s soft hand came to rest on Kylo’s hair.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

Tyrion saw the moment their eyes met.  Not Kylo and General Organa.  Jon and Daenerys.  His heart lifted a moment to see the former Night’s Watchman, ducking in out of the cold as he’d done so many times before…but the smile slipped down even as Snow did: stumbling on one leg as he beheld the woman he’d killed.

          The droids and Resistance and aliens and fire priestesses were all musing on the kneeling Supreme Leader, but to Tyrion, Kylo Ren was of no more importance than some nameless vassal come to seek advice from the King’s Hand.  While everyone tensed, waiting to see what the General would make of her prodigal son, Tyrion watched Jon and Daenerys with mounting dread.

          With help from the pretty girl who’d followed him, Jon caught his stumble before he could join Kylo on the floor. Tyrion could guess that this was Rey, the ice to Kylo’s fire.  There’d been endless talk of this these last days as General Organa and Daenerys exchanged stories.  As strange and painful as it was, they’d agreed, the four “heroes” must meet Emperor Palpatine on Exegol, do whatever it took destroy him, and right their separate worlds.

          A simple enough proposition to make at a table, surrounded by counselors and cups of tea, but now that all four heroes were in the same room, Tyrion braced for an explosion.

          As Rey continued to steady Jon, Daenerys, behind the General’s map table, went still as a statue.  A cold front formed around her as bleak as any storm that had ever preceded the approach of  White Walkers.  Jon, for his part, seemed naked in his yearning, and flamingly obvious in his shame.  Though Rey whispered to him, asking if he was well, Tyrion knew no one existed to him now but his queen.

          Former queen, Tyrion reminded himself. You told him to assassinate her.  Daenerys had forgiven Tyrion (as much as one could), but would she be able to do the same for Jon? 

          Looking at her deathly expression, Tyrion weighed those chances as slim.

          The awkward silence stretched through the tent, seeming to obtain a physical weight.  General Organa still rested a hand on Ser Kylo, who’d gone as still as Daenerys, as if fearing to move.  Meanwhile, Rey stepped back beside Finn, the two of resting their hands on their saber hilts.  They too sensed Tyrion’s feeling: that the scene needed only one wrong word to ignite.

          Why is diplomacy always my task? Tyrion wondered.  Then, very softly, he cleared his throat.

          Rey and Finn flinched, then glared at him, Finn’s look considerably more disgusted.  Tyrion had caught him snogging a man instead of Rose, a fact for which no one seemed prepared to forgive him.

          He sighed. The one time everyone was paying attention to me—but his self-pity died as General Organa turned to him.  He couldn’t be sure, but he thought her wry smile might have doubled as a “thank you.” 

          The room stirred uncomfortably back to life, everyone but Ser Kylo straightening postures and clothing.  Finn frowned as Rey ventured a step towards Kylo, her face betraying a look of concern.

          “I think that most of you have met?”  General Organa asked.  The wry smile remained as she turned to include Daenerys.

          “We’ve met,” Daenerys said, crisply.  “All of us.  Except you.”  Her ruby red eyes blazed as she looked at Rey.   

          “Your grace,” Tyrion said, “might I suggest we return to the Steadfast and give the General a moment with her son?”  It seemed prudent Organa talk to Ser Kylo quickly now that he’d so miraculously appeared.  Maybe she could clap some of those strange manacles on him as her guards had done when they dragged General Hux out of his wardrobe.  (In the excitement of stealing the Star Destroyer, Rose had forgotten to jettison Hux in an escape pod.)

          “Very well,” Daenerys said.  But she didn’t move.  She and Snow had locked eyes again.  It took Tyrion a moment to realize that, as well as angry, Daenerys was afraid.  Snow was blocking the tent flap.  Daenerys would have to pass by him to get out.

          “Three-nine!” Tyrion hissed, gesturing to little black droid.  The willful creature lurked just behind Daenerys, peeping out from behind a Resistance banner.  “Go cause some trouble for your friend,” Tyrion whispered.  He nodded towards Snow and Rey, who had been joined by BB-8.  Three-nine gave a wicked chirp and rolled enthusiastically onward.  As the various Resistance members started filing from the tent, Three-nine plowed towards BB-8 with one mechanical arm waving.  The orange-and-white droid realized its peril too late and let out a “Wow!” of surprise.  Sparks flew.  Rey whipped out her lightsaber, and managed to sever one of Three-nine’s antennae before she realized what was happening.  Tyrion winced, but his ploy had done its job.  Snow and Rey were pushed to the side as they tried to wrangle the droids.  Jon  seemed not to have encountered the creatures yet and was thoroughly distracted as Tyrion ushered Daenerys into the cold.

          Outside, the Resistance members had assembled a motley assortment of guards to protect the tent against loiterers.  Tyrion had heard the rumblings as Ser Kylo approached and wondered why the General hadn’t unleashed that furred giant, Chewbacca, sooner.  Not that Ser Kylo didn’t deserve scorn, but if you had a raging giant, why not use it?  Even after three days in the company of the creature, Tyrion still flinched whenever it roared.  It reminded him of both the giants he’d encountered on the Long Night and the shambling mammoths they had ridden.  That "Chewie" appeared to be an Organa-family pet was one of the stranger things he’d seen in this galaxy.

          But only one.

          Immediately following on Tyrion’s heels came Kinvara and Hataska Ren.  Tyrion’s shoulders squirmed.  A weird power hung around them today.  He’d been so busy trying to gauge the situation between Jon and Daenerys he’d almost forgotten the rest of the queen’s entourage.  Now, as Daenerys paused uncertainly, examining the assembled Resistance and the various disgruntled faces beyond them, Tyrion felt himself physically pulled about by the energy brewing between priestess and  Knight.  The pair had frozen, their hands clasped, chins up as if they straining to hear a distant message.  Tyrion could feel them seeking some mysterious target—

         He flinched as Daenerys stepped back against him.  

         “I’m not ready,” his queen whispered, her had braced on Tyrion’s shoulder. She steadied herself as her attention drifted outward to whatever Kinvara and Hataska searched for.  Tyrion found himself listening—yearning—too.  Is this the Force? he wondered.  He had to admit: he’d felt a presence the last three days. Mostly near the ruins of the Jedi temple, but also deeper, centered in the earth.  The whole planet was supposed to be strong with the Force, but even hearing it talked of these last few days as Organa hosted Daenerys, he hadn’t felt anything like this since that awful day at Webbish Bog.

          The fate of two realities collide.

           He shuddered as he recalled how the Oracle had taken him over.

          The balance must be restored to each. The Lord of the Sith awaits the Dyad: darkness and light to restore the balance.  The Lord of the Dead awaits the Dragon and the Wolf.  Ice and Fire must destroy the past.  All must journey to Exegol, taking with you the other half of yourselves.  Knight and Dragon.  Wolf and Sun.  You must wield, together, the Red Blade of Heroes.  If you do not, the darkness shall reign and all heroes and realities fall.

          “Not ready,” Daenerys repeated. Was it Tyrion’s imagination, or was there a glow where her gaze lingered? 

          “You must answer,” Hataska Ren hissed.

          Both Tyrion and Daenerys turned to face the Knight and the priestess.  The unlikely pair appeared to be standing on their toes as if physically pulled to the source of…whatever the Seven Hells it was.

          “But--” Daenerys said.

          “You’re all together,” Kinvara whispered.  “You alone, Mother of Dragons, have not beheld the truth.”

          Tyrion had seldom known his queen so discomfited.  “Truth?” she said.  “In the Jedi temple?”

          Hataska and Kinvara nodded.

          “Go now,” the Knight said.  “Take nothing with you.”

          “Mother of Dragons,” whispered Kinvara.  “Slayer of lies.”

          Daenerys swallowed, her face as nervous as a maiden on her wedding day.

          “But I—” she began. 

          Before she could finish, a less celestial disturbance emerged in the form of Rose Tico.  Tyrion was jolted from a spell as the little mechanic pushed through the crowd towards him.

          “Force!” Rose said.  The pilot, Poe, was on her heels, keeping a bit of distance, as well he might.  From what Tyrion had gathered, Finn and Rose had “broken up,” the ex-Orderman and the pilot bedding down together while Rose spent each night in an unknown location. She looked thinner and sadder each time Tyrion saw her.  She gave Poe a furious look as he raced past her into the command tent.

          “General!” he called.  “General!  The temple!”  The tent flap swished shut behind him.

          “The temple?” Tyrion asked.

          “It’s all lit up,” Rose replied. She took a step as if considering following Poe, then paused.  “Is he in there?” she asked Tyrion.

          “Who, Kylo Ren?” Tyrion asked.  But he knew who she meant.  Before she could scowl him half to death, he waddled forward and touched her hand.  “I would probably stay here,” he confided.

          Rose nodded, crestfallen, but brightened as Jon Snow’s wolf suddenly pushed through the tent flap.  Ignoring Hataska and Kinvara, Ghost approached Daenerys and settled expectantly at her feet.

          “Hey there,” Rose said.  “Whatcha doing, boy?”  But though the wolf was old and frail, she kept her distance.  So did Tyrion.  Not because Ghost was dangerous—but because the animal was uncharacteristically alert.  It had gladdened Tyrion’s heart to find Ghost in the camp (Jon Snow could usually be found in company with the beast) but, like Tyrion and Jon himself, Ghost was older, and, in the past few days, he'd kept sleepily to himself.

          Now, Ghost gave a small whine.  A thin, white tail pounded the ground.  It was Daenerys the beast communicated with.  And Daenerys seemed to understand.

          “You can take nothing with you,” Kinvara reminded her as Daenerys bent to gently stroke the wolf’s head.

          “Ghost isn’t a thing.” Daenerys straightened: regal and commanding. “Show me,” she told the old white wolf and, without a look back at her counselors, flowed towards the edge of the crowd.  The people murmured and, as they drew back from her, the sound of leathern wings came sweeping on the air.  Drogon shadowed both wolf and mistress as they moved towards the far, glowing edge of the encampment.

          “What the hell is going on?” Rose Tico murmured. 

          “What must go on,” Kinvara said. 

          Tyrion, fearing some unseen threat, felt himself itching to follow Daenerys. 

         “Since I’m not a ‘thing’ either," he sallied, "does that mean…?”

          Kinvara and Hataska (helmet or no helmet) glared. 

          The huge shape of the dragon swept away, following the white shapes of the wolf and the queen.  Several people drifted cautiously after them, and the tension gripping this part of the encampment eased.  The Resistance guards formed a casual barrier, watchful, but less urgent than before.  As the day dimmed and a cold wind rose, Tyrion shivered and tugged his short, Naboo-cloak tighter.  Rose Tico was looking at the tent again, but couldn’t seem to nerve herself to go inside.

          “Well, now what?” Tyrion demanded.  “We just stand here, freezing our asses off?”

          “I’m going to my tank,” Hataska said.  “We’ll know when she comes out again.”

          “If she comes out again!” Tyrion said.  “That light she's going towards is pulsing!"

          Rose shrugged.  “Yeah, but it's...kinda pretty?”

          “Trust the Ren,” Hataska chuckled—and slithered off.  With a mysterious smile, Kinvara flowed in another direction. Tyrion stood beside Rose Tico, feeling at his wit’s end.

          “I don’t understand anything anymore,” he told her, running a chilly hand through his hair.

          “Me either,” she said.  “Not men.  Or women.  All I can think about is spotchka.”

          “Spotchka?” Tyrion asked.  “Oh no. It’s not a mystical thing like the Force, is it?”

          Rose gave the tent—and Tyrion imagined, Finn and Poe—a final glare.  “It’s a whole lot better than the Force,” she said.  “Come on.”

Chapter Text

Daenerys

The light called her.

          Daenerys Targaryen moved between the endless tents, treading soundlessly on the icy path. The presence of Ghost, loping at her side, and the gliding shadow of Drogon kept spectators away.  She could hear murmurs as people and creatures made themselves scarce, but her attention was on the approaching glow.

          By the time she made it to the mural, that glow had become a golden fire.  A Resistance man in one of those garish orange “flight suits” stood guard beside the temple wall, hands shading his eyes.  The light hurt him, Daenerys guessed, but to her it felt welcoming, radiating from the figure of the woman

          (Daughter)

on the left side of the painting. The figure had pale, glowing hair.  Targaryen hair.  As Daenerys approached, she lifted her head and smiled.

          Dany stopped, heart beating fiercely in her chest, as a pair of green eyes regarded her.  Slowly she lifted a hand to her heart to cover the place where Jon Snow had stabbed her.

          Mother of Dragons, a sweet voice whispered. Bride of fire.  Slayer of lies.

          Daenerys trembled.  Slayer of children, she thought.

          The figure—the Daughter—only smiled her soft smile.

          You have darkness in you, said the voice, without judgement.  Yet also the capacity for good.  Do you wish to bring balance to the Force that joins all things, both dark and light?

          Daenerys nodded.  She was crying.  Her hand rested on Ghost’s head.  She could feel the life in the old direwolf flickering like a candle in a breeze.

          Drogon had settled atop the wall.  His lifeforce was vast—yet bound to his mistress as well.  The last of her children.  The last dragon.  When she died, she knew, he would follow her. 

          Better to die fighting then, she thought.  Better to die trying, as I once tried, to make a better world.

          She stood between the dragon and the wolf, between the cold of winter and the Daughter’s summery glow. 

          Yes, she thought.  Yes.  I wish for balance.

          Enter, then, the voice bade her.

          The temple opened.

Chapter Text

Leia

A pair of droids were squabbing in the corner: BB-8 and the First Order droid that kept following Lord Tyrion.  Rey and Jon Snow were trying to quell them.

     Leia looked into her son’s eyes.

     “Mom?”  The word snagged in Ben’s throat.  A dry sound, as if he needed a long drink of water.  His flesh seemed ever-so-shrunken against the bone.  His fine clothing was grubby.  An earthy scent hovered about him. The smell of another place and time.

     “Ben,” she said hoarsely.  Her grip tightened on his skull.  Partly to steady herself.  Partly to affirm he was real.  Daenerys Targaryen’s people had helped Rose Tico steal a Star Destroyer just to get their queen away from him.  He was supposed to be on the other side of the galaxy.  How had he been in the Jedi temple?

     “Palpatine,” he said lowly.  “All of this is Palpatine.  Except me.” He blinked as if surprised by his own admission.  “I led the Order,” he said.  “Everything after Snoke was my decision.” 

     “You killed Snoke,” Leia said.

     “I did,” he nodded.  “Then I blamed his murder on Rey.” 

     On the other side of the room, the girl in question turned as she and Finn heaved a feisty BB-8 off the ground.  Jon Snow, unacquainted with droids until today, had threatened BB-39 to silence with his lightsaber.  Now he glared down at the surly ball of metal with a look of mingled annoyance and awe.

     “Did I see a golden man just now?” he asked Rey.

     “You did,” Rey nodded.

     Ben bared his teeth.

     “Jealous?” Leia asked, so only he could hear. 

     His head whipped towards her.  “Is that all you have to say?” The grim facade of Kylo Ren twisted his features as if a beast had suddenly pushed through beneath his skin.

     “I don’t know what to say.”  Leia dropped her hand. In the pause she could feel Han’s memory hanging between them.  Her funny, handsome scoundrel of a husband. He’d have cracked a joke or swatted Ben upside the head.  He’d never hurt the boy, but he could be stern.  Ben had loved to push buttons of every kind.

     He didn’t even leave me a body to bury, Leia thought.  Even Vader had given her more when he’d frozen Han in carbonite.

     She sighed.  Her evil father. Her reckless husband.  Her Force-touched brother.  Her corrupted son.

     Everyone in our family is insane, she decided.

     Just then, Poe Dameron entered the tent.

     “General!” he yelled.  “General the temple-”

     He cut off as he realized Kylo Ren was kneeling before her.

     “Kriffing hell!”  Poe went instinctively for his blaster, but Ben rose and (with a rather spastic shrug) slipped his flimsy bonds.  Finn’s blaster flew across the tent and dropped harmlessly to the floor.

     “Leave me alone, Dameron,” Ben said.

     Poe gathered himself to lunge—but Finn crashed into him. 

     “No wait,” Finn said, physically restraining his boyfriend.  “He sucks, I know.  But we do kinda need him.”

     “Okay,”  Poe nodded, straining against him.  “But maybe not so pretty.”

     Ben smirked.  “Try it, fly boy.  Make me pay.”

     “For the love of the Maker,” Leia muttered.  “Can’t you boys give it a rest?  Poe—what’s this about the temple?”

     “Started glowing,” Poe said.  “Green this time.”

     Across the room, Jon Snow perked up so abruptly Leia though BB-39 had zapped him.  “Where’s Ghost?” he said.  “Where’s Daenerys?” 

     “Outside,” Poe said. 

     Jon started towards the door. 

     “Wait!” Rey grabbed his arm.  “I sense--”

     “Me too,” Snow responded.  “What does it mean?”

     “Nothing good for you,” Ben sneered.  “She doesn’t want to see you, killer.”

     “You should talk!” Rey blazed at him.

     But Jon Snow was utterly unfazed.

     “I am a killer,” he told Ben, nodding.  “I just don’t enjoy it the way you do.”

     Ben glared but, by then, everyone had realized: the tension simmering in the room was more than the boiling of tempers.  Lothal was thrumming with Force power again.  A different thrumming from any Leia had sensed before.

     She rubbed her head.  “This place is giving me whiplash.  Poe—you said the temple is glowing green?”

     “The lady is all lit up,” Poe said.

     “The Daughter?” Rey asked.

     “Lothal is linked to the gods of Mortis.”  Ben sounded like Han used when he was trying to show off.

     “What do these gods want with Dany?” Jon Snow asked.

     “What Palpatine wanted,” Ben replied.  Amazingly he looked at Rey for conformation.

     More amazingly, she nodded.

     “Jon,” she said, “we all saw that vision. It’s Daenerys, in the end, holding the blade.”  She turned to Leia and began to explain what had happened within the temple: how the four heroes faced Palpatine—and lost.  Ben slew Rey. Daenerys slew him. Only Jon and a shadowy figure remained as Daenerys obeyed Palpatine’s command to strike him down.

     As Rey finished, both Finn and Poe looked ready to murder Ben, but Leia stepped between them before things could get hotter.

     “Simmer down,” she growled.  She was thinking hard.  The vision seemed too cut-and-dried.  Why would a Jedi temple show its defenders their own deaths if there was nothing they could do about it?  The Force didn’t trade in absolutes.  In Leia’s experience, no prophecy or vision ever meant what it seemed to. Not unless it was a Dark Side trick—and she very much doubted that was the case.

     “The Daughter is a benevolent spirit,” she murmured.  “Now it’s calling to Daenerys.”  Very odd, considering what the dragon queen had done to her own kingdom.  Leia would have bet on the Brother counseling her. 

     He didn’t though.  Rey and Jon saw the Brother.  His portion of the mural had glowed as they’d passed into the temple.  A time for wolves, a voice had murmured.  She’d thought it had referred to the Loth-wolves but…

     “She’s in the temple,” Jon Snow whispered.  “With ghost.”  He was so self-contained, she’d forgotten he was there.  Now he seemed to perceive her thinking.

     “Maybe it’s backwards,” he said.  “Maybe--”

     But the Force of Lothal gave a surge. 

     A black-red flash of lightning crackled in Leia’s head as all the light seemed to drain out of the room.

     “Mom!” Ben screamed.  He reached upward and she realized she was hanging in the air.

     What? she wondered, but that was all she had room for as a monstrous Dark Side presence ballooned in her skull.

     EIGHTEEN HOURS! a creaking voice proclaimed.  Not her voice, though it was coming from her mouth.

     Rey and Ben stretched their arms out, their Force powers attempting to drag her earthward but, though the power holding her juddered, it did not release.

     Meanwhile, everyone was screaming.  Finn ran up beside Ben, his hatred of Kylo Ren temporarily forgotten as he added his own considerable Force power to their efforts. 

     “Eighteen hours or what, you son of a bitch?” Poe yelled.  He’d recovered his blaster and was aiming it at her as if expecting Palpatine to pop up over her shoulder.

     In answer, a dreadful laugh rolled from Leia’s throat.  It seemed to take a part of her with it.  As the young people looked up at her in terror, a concussive WHUMP! signaled the arrival of a massive ship over the Resistance camp.

     ASSSSSK BEN SSSOLO.  The Emperor’s voice hissed.  Leia had just enough wherewithal her son’s sickened expression.

     “Planet killer,” he mouthed. 

     Leia’s mind was going dark, her breath crushed to a trickle.  She had a horrified idea of something trying to squirm into her.  Something that would displace her from her own skin.

     Help, she tried to say—but the voice came again:

     EIGHTEEN HOURS TO GET TO EXEGOL OR WINTER COMES FOR YOU ALL!

     Abruptly the awful presence receded.  The floor of the tent plunged toward her.

     No! she thought.  She was going to break her leg…

     “Mom!”

     A pair of strong arms caught her.

     “Ben?” she asked, weakly.

     “Mom!  No—stay awake!”

     But on this, she was unable to obey.

Chapter Text

Rey

Ben cradled his mother, shrieking, as the huge dark presence swept from the room.  Its departure was tempered by a similar heaviness: the huge Star Destroyer they all could feel hanging weightless above the camp.

          “Poe, Finn,” Rey ordered.  Already the outside world hummed with panic.

          “We’ll keep order,” Poe promised.

          “Tell them he’s not attacking yet,” Rey said.

          “Yeah,” Finn said.  “Not yet.”  The Force ebbed around him with weariness and despair.  Rey pushed a bit of reassurance at him, but got only a disaffected smile.  He gripped his lightsaber, then Poe’s hand, and together the pair of them left the tent, shouting orders.

          “Do you have a Maester?” Jon Snow asked.  Leia still wasn’t moving and Ben’s cries had trailed off.  Fury and sadness radiated from him.  You didn’t have to be a Force user to sense it.

          “They’ll send someone,” Rey said.  She didn’t know what a Maester was, but she assumed it was some kind of medic. 

Unfortunately, she already sensed that no med droid or bacta tank was going to fix this.

          “It’s the Force!” Ben exclaimed, lowering his mother to the ground.  “That kriffing bastard did something…I can’t…I healed a fucking dragon but Palpatine won’t let me touch her…”

          “Do you think he’s up there?” Jon Snow asked at the same time Rey said:

          “You healed a dragon?”

          “Force healed it,” Ben muttered.  “On Naboo.”  His feelings reached her.  He was exhausted, nearly out of his mind.  Eighteen hours and then they were all going to die and what was the use?  No one was coming to save them.

          “That’s not true!” Rey protested.

          The two men turned to her.

          “Our enemy isn’t up there?” Jon Snow indicated the hidden sky.

          “What?  You think we can beat this?” Ben snarled. “Are you so fucking eager die?”

          “I fucking refuse to die,” Rey snarled back.  “Seven Hells, Ben!  Would Kylo Ren give in?  To Palpatine?”  From what she’d seen, the Emperor was a rotting corpse, unnaturally sustained by arcane powers.  Powerful powers but he needed them: the four heroes.  The red blade. 

          “We don’t have four heroes,” Ben spit.  “Daenerys is gone—and if she comes back it’ll be in three days.”

          “Gods,” Jon Snow swore.  “Dany…”  His hand crept to his breast to soothe the old wound.  Rey could sense it, sense everyone’s pain: Jon’s wound, Ben’s panic, the black lightnings that had knocked Leia unconscious.

          “Everyone quiet a moment,” she commanded.  “I have to think.  Ben, do you still have the Sith wayfinder?”

          For a moment his face was utterly blank.  Then his hands fumbled at his belt.  He produced the little triangular device that, somehow, Rey knew had been there all along.

          “How?” he asked.

          Rey waved a hand.  “I saw it.”

          A muscle in Ben’s jaw twitched.  “Dyad,” he said.

          “Dyad?” Rey asked.

          “It means we’re connected.  You too, Snow.  You and Daenerys.  Two who are one.”

          Rey nodded.  It made sense. Two-who-were-one.  Two halves of a whole.  Each pair from a different world.  Something about that made Palpatine think he could use them ….

          She drew a heavy breath.  She was tired too. But there were too many things to take care of.

          “We can use the wayfinder to reach Exegol,” she said.  “But we also need to get the planet-killer out of here.”  The thought of star destroyers nudged something in her mind.  “How long until the Order comes down on us?” she said.

          “Krifffuck!”  Ben tore his hair. “Any minute.  They’ll know the jamming signal is down.  They’ll try to re-establish it and start tracking down that stolen destroyer…”

          “Then we need to end this war,” Rey said. 

Though Ben had at least a foot on her, he was the one who backed up as she stepped into his space.  “If we’re really a dyad in the Force,” she said, “we’d better bloody well start acting like it.  We’re going to need both sides to stop Palpatine.  Dark and light. Resistance and Order.”

          As she spoke, a harried beeping sounded and BBs 8 and 39 came racing into the tent.  Rey hadn’t even noticed them depart—but they’d brought a med-droid with a hover stretcher floating behind it.  Lieutenant Connix and Wrobie Tyce followed.  The two women gasped to find Leia on the floor.  They both glared furiously at Ben, but Rey shook her head and, though puzzled, the two women were soon tending to Leia.

          “End the war,” Ben said, flatly.  He kept glancing at his mother.  Kept curling and uncurling his gloved hands. “How the hell are we going to do that?”

           “For starters,” Rey said, “we have to find Rose Tico.”

###

“She won’t talk to me.”  Finn’s voice crackled as Rey raised him over her comm.  She thought briefly of how he’d held Poe’s hand—then decided there was no time to pursue it.  

          “You must know where she is, though?”  she asked.

          “The Falcon—hey no!  Don’t point that cannon at the destroyer!”  The connection buzzed as he shouted at some trigger-happy ally.

          “I left the Falcon on the other side of the planet,” Rey said.

          “Rose went back for it when—ah—when things changed, over here.  It’s parked west of the command tent—no!  I said do not point that thing at the destroyer!”  Static and frustration came over the comm.  “I gotta go, Rey.  Everyone wants to attack the planet killer--”

          “Unless they want a bunch of ice zombies eating their faces they better leave the planer killer alone.”  Ben’s voice was so dark and filled with Force power, Rey could feel Finn flinch on the other end of the line.

          “Nice boyfriend you’ve got, Rey,” he muttered.

          Rey ignored him.  “Is there a landmark I can look for?”

          “Near the Falcon?  There’s three big red, pointy rocks.  Rose likes natural spaces—you can probably see them from Command.”

          “Thanks.” Rey switched off the comm and gave Ben and Jon Snow a considering look.  With the camp in chaos she thought chances of their being hassled low.  Still…

          “Do you have a cape or something, to hide your face?” she asked Ben.

          “Give me back my saber and I won’t need to.” Kylo Ren surfaced in the dark cant of his voice. After a moment’s consideration, Rey tossed him the weapon.  No one would feel like messing with him now.

          “Be on alert then.”  She rubbed her tired eyes.  “We’re going to the Falcon to get Rose.”

          “And then?” asked Ben. 

          “Then she can stop your people re-jamming the galaxy,” Rey said.  “After that, you and me are going to send a message.”

          “We have to stand together,” Jon Snow murmured.  “All of us…” He sounded wistful, as if recalling some past conversation.

          As Ben’s lips thinned—no doubts searching for a stinging retort—a groan sounded and the three of them turned towards Leia.  Wrobie and Connix were helping the med-droid to lift the General into the hover stretcher.

          “Wait…” Leia’s voice was a rustle of dry leaves.  Ben raced over, gripping her hand.  When Leia’s eyes fluttered open a moment, she didn’t appear to recognize him.

          “Snow,” she said.  “Jon Snow.” 

          Ben blanched.  “Mom, it’s me.”

          “I need Snow, now.”  Leia just managed to raise her head.  “I need…give…it’s in my robes…”

          Over her usual sensible gown, she wore a soft velvet duster.  As the med-droid held her, she used her free hand to reach into an outside pocket.  Ben paled further as she drew forth a lightsaber.  Her lightsaber from her Jedi training. 

           She held it out to Jon Snow.

          “Take it,” she said.  “There has to be…a balance…”

          Snow gave Rey a questioning look.

          Rey nodded in encouragement.  She understood.  Jon had been carrying a Sith blade since he’d come to the galaxy. It was time he exchanged it for a weapon fitting his allegiance to the Light.   

          A sudden burst of strength filled Leia’s body as Snow approached and clasped the hilt of the blade.  He stumbled a little as she pulled him towards her and craned her neck to whisper in his ear.

          Ben, envy and horror on his face, dropped his mother’s hand and broke away.  He turned to the wall, shoulders hunched and stiff, and remained so when Leia lapsed back into the med droid’s arms.  He was still brooding when the droid bundled Leia into the stretcher and guided it out of the tent with Wrobie and Connix in tow.

          “They…they say she’ll be in the med tent in sector three,” Snow said, rejoining Rey with a conflicted expression.   He’d already hung his Sith blade on his belt and was weighing Leia’s saber in his hand.   From the caution in his tone and the apprehensive look he gave Ben, he was both sensible of the honor bestowed on him—and of the fraught family dynamic.

          “This feels better,” he confided to Rey, leaning close, as Leia had, to speak in a whisper.  “But…why give it to me instead of…?”

          “Leia serves the Light above all things,” Rey replied.  “She senses the good in you, Jon Snow, just as she senses the struggle in her son.”

          “She called me son,” Snow whispered.  “Just in passing.  ‘Take this, son.  It should be you.’”  Awe tinged his voice—and a deep note of sadness.  Rey squeezed his shoulder as tears welled in his eyes.

          “Are you all right?” she asked.

          “I…It’s…I never knew my mother.”

          “Oh.”  Rey thought she understood.  “Me either,” she said.  “But Leia--”

          “Yes,” he said. 

          Brusquely, he wiped away his tears, then lit the saber, bathing his face in blue light.

          “Here,” Rey said.  She unclipped his Sith blade, then went and placed it on the table with its maps and charts.  Ben, standing nearby, stirred.

          “You’re going to leave that there?” he said.  “Where any scum can take it?”

          “Do you want it?” Rey replied mildly.

          Ben turned.  His black gloves clenched and unclenched. So many emotions crossed his face Rey began to feel woozy.

          “She asked for him,” he said at last.  “We might all die and she asked for him!”

          “She doesn’t have much strength left,” Rey said.  “And you have the blade you’re meant to bear.”

          “I’m her son!” Ben’s control finally slipped.  “I’m her son, and even now she has no time for me!”

          Rey considered him: his stricken face, his powerful, heaving frame which had terrified so many.  His cross guard blade, clutched by his side, had killed hundreds of people.  Palpatine had seduced him to the Dark, but it was Ben who had forged the creature Kylo Ren, the masked fiend and the stuff of nightmares who had killed his own father to satisfy the Dark.  Why should Leia wish to speak to him now?  Why should she forgive him?  Why should anyone? He had made his choices and burned his bridges…

          Still, Rey gripped him gently-but-firmly by the wrist.

          “Ben,” she said.  “Your mother cares for you.  But you’ve taken things from all of us.”  Though she spoke with as little condemnation as she could, she sensed his thoughts go to his last exchange with Han Solo.  She gripped him tighter as he tried to draw away, anchoring herself with her increasingly frayed connection to the Force.  “All her life, Leia fought for the Light,” she said. “She’s still fighting for it now, with her last strength. If you want to honor her, if you want to be her son, you’ll stand with us now until we win or we die.”

          His face had smoothed by the time she finished speaking. Impassive, imperious he shook his head.

          “I won’t stand with ‘us,’” he said derisively. “Not with these people who will hang me the first chance they get. Not—” he said as Rey angrily opened her mouth, “that I don’t deserve hanging or much, much worse.”

          He paused.  For a moment the pair of them breathed together as if both borne up on the same dark tide.

          “I’ll stand with you though,” he said, softly, humbly.  “With you.  With my mother.  If there’s a way to win…”  He trailed off, imperiousness ceding to anguish.  “I’ll stand with you, but…”  His breath shuddered.  He was remembering the vision from the Jedi temple.

          So was Rey.

          “We don’t know if anything we saw is true,” she said, with more conviction than she felt.  “Even if it is, we have to try.”

          He snorted.  “This is what I hate about you Jedi heroes.  You’re all so insufferably noble and selfless.  I’m not, Rey.  I’ll never be.  And when this is over, there’s no happy ending.  Not after everything I’ve done.”

          “Then don’t think about after,” Rey said. “Just be here now.  Be with me.”  She let go of his wrist and extended her hand in a gesture the two of them knew too well.

          He looked at her, surprised.  Then with the smallest smile.

          “Yes,” he said.

          And took her hand.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

Tyrion woke on the Falcon’s holochess table to discover three figures standing over him. 

Oh no, he thought. The grumpkins and snarks again. Tyrion had “activated” them a while ago when he bumped into the underside of the table.  Rose called them “holograms” and made them go away, but it appeared they weren’t so easily appeased.  There were fell powers at work in the camp.  There’d a been another Force surge just before he passed out.  He and Rose had groaned from their respective sides of the table, but they’d been too tired and muzzy to investigate.

          “They’ll let us know if the world ends,” Rose had grumbled.  Her head was still beside Tyrion’s, on the board.

          “Is the world ending?” Tyrion muttered now.

          “Not yet, my lord Hand.”

          Gods. He knew that voice.

          He forced his head up.  Jon Snow looked even more tired than he had in General Organa’s tent.  Still, he numbered among one of the happiest sights Tyrion Lannister had seen in a while.

          “Snow,” Tyrion said.

          Jon held out a hand and helped Tyrion dismount the table.  The world wobbled, but it wasn’t too bad.  Spotchka was more forgiving than hyperspace.

          “Rey,” Jon said, “have you met Tyrion yet?”  He knelt so the girl behind him could get a look.

          “Not yet,” Rey smiled.  “Hello Tyrion.”

          Beside her, the third member of their party scowled.

          “Traitor,” Ser Kylo muttered.

          “Leave off.”  Rey placed a hand on Kylo’s arm—which seemed to calm him.  A little.

          “Did you get that girl drunk?” Kylo demanded, nodding to the delicately snoring Rose.         

          “Mistress Rose was kind enough to teach me about Spotchka,” Tyrion said. 

          Ser Kylo rolled his eyes.  “Well wake her up.  We’ve a got a massive problem on our hands.”

          “Our hands?” Tyrion asked.

          “Palpatine sent another message,” Jon told him.  “We’ve put our differences aside to fight him.”

          “How extremely familiar,” Tyrion said.  He waddled over to Rose and shook her awake.

          “Kriffing hell, what is it?” she complained. Then, spying Ser Kylo, she shrieked.

          “I’ll be on the bridge,” Ser Kylo said.  He swept away in a swirl of ragged cloak.  Rey brushed past him and knelt beside Rose, comforting her even as she asked for a favor.

          “Whatever you did to un-jam the Order’s signal,” Rey said, “we need to make it permanent.  It’s only a matter of time before they try to attack us.  Ben has to let them know we’re working together.”

          “Ben?” Rose asked. “Oh.  Ben Solo.  Is that what he’s decided on?”  Her dark look settled where Ser Kylo had stood. 

          Rey sighed.  “I know this isn’t easy.”

          “You’re right about that.”  Rose massaged her temples.  The Spotchka had left her a little worse for wear.  “I guess it’s either play nice or die.”  She groaned and stood.  “I need Artoo. And to get to the Steadfast.  We can take the Falcon to save time.”

          “Excellent.” Rey squeezed Rose’s shoulder—which made Rose turn a little green.

          “You don’t have any Force healing powers, do you?” Rose asked her.  “My head--”

          “I’ve got something.” Tyrion drew a pair of Hataska’s vials from his pocket.  Rose, who only a few days ago had tried to bash his brains in with a droid arm, took it without question and drank.  “Oh, thank the Force,” she said.

          Rey smiled.  “I’ll get Artoo on the comm.”

          Tyrion drank his own potion and squeezed in beside Rose.

          “Jon Snow!” he said.  “Have you ridden in a starship yet?”

          “Can’t say I have,” Snow replied.

          “Well then, come and have a seat!”  Tyrion waved another vial.  “You might be wanting one of these.”

###

Tyrion turned out to be wrong about that.  When the Falcon lifted off a half-hour later, Snow had joined Rey in the cockpit.  His exclamations of awe whispered down the corridor as the girl guided the craft skyward.  Tyrion, amused and—thanks to Hataska’s potion—immune to motion sickness, found himself drawn to take a look.  Beyond the cockpit the winter-worn surface of Lothal spread below them, filling Tyrion with wonder.  The slow rise of the craft reminded him of the Night Watch’s lift and that long ago day when he’d pissed off the edge of the Wall.  The visible bustling of ships in General Organa’s camp was oddly stirring—and comforting, given the massive planet killer that hovered in the distance.

          “Can you please, step back,” Kylo Ren growled as Jon Snow pushed between his seat and Rey’s.  Both the Force users seemed to know the Falcon intimately and were working in silent tandem to guide the ship to the Steadfast.  This high, the edge of the atmosphere beginning to show where the earth became the stars, there were still a few dragons buzzing by and a red-scaled beast was keeping pace with them.

          This didn’t seem to bother Ser Kylo half as much as Jon Snow oohing and ahhing over his shoulder.

          “Sorry,” Jon replied sheepishly.  He drew back, trying to content himself with leaning against the wall of the cabin.  But he kept craning his neck to see the diminishing camp and to give the massive planet killer an apprehensive assessment.

          “Yes, I feel it too,” Ser Kylo snarled of a sudden.  Both Rey and Jon flinched as if he were talking to them.

          “We all feel it,” Rose Tico piped up. She’d come to stand by Tyrion as, before them, the docking bay of the Steadfast appeared.  “There’s something in the Emperor’s ship, isn’t there?  I mean—look at all the dragons!”

          Tyrion started. As enraptured by their progress as Snow, this was the first time he’d noticed the fuzzy movements by the planet killer.  Just as his view of the thing was cut off by the Steadfast, the undulating movement beneath the bigger ship resolved into a cloud of dragons.

          “They hate wights,” Ser Kylo said.  The Falcon was now entering the Steadfast’s cargo bay.  A few of Daenerys’s dragons perched between the Tie-Fighters.  The red beast that had been tailing them darted past and settled itself on a railing like a raven in a rookery.

          “You think there are more wights on that ship?” Tyrion asked.

          “You saw what happened on Naboo,” Ser Kylo said. 

          Tyrion sighed.  “Why must everything keep repeating?” he wondered.

          “Artoo,” Rose said into her commlink.  “Scan for lifeforms on Palpatine’s ship.”  She paused.  “No, not under it.  Inside.  Yeah.”

          “Wights aren’t alive,” Ser Kylo said.

          Rose, listening to the chatters over her comm, scowled.  “One of them is,” she reported.  “Artoo says there’s exactly one lifeform located in the main hanger bay.”

          “So?” Ser Kylo snapped. 

“That’s where they came from before,” Tyrion reminded him.  “We never actually saw how many wights came from that…pod that dropped.”

“It’s probably some Sith lackey pulling detail,” Kylo retorted.

“One guy to man an entire Star Destroyer?” Rose spoke into her comm again.  “Artoo, can you tell me if the planet killer is remote piloted?”

“What does it even matter?” Kylo said.

Rey, who’d begun the “landing cycle,” growled.  “Let’s tackle one bloody problem at a time.”           

But as the Falcon set down on the launch pad, Rose listened doggedly at her commlink.

“It is remoted piloted,” she said.  “Nobody is flying that thing but something is alive in there.”

“Something the dragons don’t like,” Tyrion murmured.  A thin groaning sound came as the Falcon’s ramp lowered somewhere behind him.  Rey and Kylo were removing their headsets and disentangling themselves from their harnesses.  A powerful sense that they were acting together swept over Tyrion as they pushed past him and headed for the exit.

“Whatever is in there,” Rey said, “it’s staying put for now.  We need you, Rose, to keep the Order from re-jamming us—and open a channel so we can speak to both the Order and the Resistance.”

A sparkly beeping preceded the appearance of R2-D2.  Rose smiled and placed a hand on the little silver and blue droid.   “Artoo and I can do it, or close enough.  Right buddy?”

          The droid chirruped. 

          “What can I do?” Jon Snow asked.

          The group had begun its stroll towards the Falcon’s cargo ramp.  At the edge, Rey paused, turning back to them, while Ser Kylo remained in silhouette, his great, broad backside like a miniature Wall.  Beyond him, the Steadfast gleamed cold and metallic.  The red dragon had flapped downward and was curiously eyeing the ramp. 

          “We’re going to the control room.”  Rey nodded to where a huge glass booth looked down on the hangar.  “Why don’t you and Tyrion keep watch?  If Palpatine’s ship unleashes anything, you’ll be able to see it from here.” 

          Jon nodded.  At the bottom of the ramp, they parted ways: Rey, Rose, Kylo and Artoo to fathom the mysteries of “the control room,” Tyrion, Jon and the lurking red dragon to keep their eyes on the sky.  The massive entrance of the hangar yawned down over Lothal, but Tyrion knew from previous flights that an invisible barrier would keep them from falling.  He explained as much to Jon—but the former Watchman seemed unconcerned, gazing raptly down at the planet and the few Resistance ships skimming by below.  Meanwhile, Tyrion kept an eye on the red dragon. 

Interesting, he thought.  He’d seen the beast around: one of the larger ones Daenerys had brought to the Galaxy.  It was still too small to be ridden.  At least by hulking men like Ser Kylo.  Jon Snow might have managed it.  Or Tyrion himself.  The beast regarded him as if it could tell it was being thought about.

“Well come on then,” Tyrion told it.

          The dragon gave a high-pitched chirp and shuffled a little closer.  Jon Snow whirled, but Tyrion waved a hand.

          “It’s all right,” he said.  “The dragons know me.”

          “Since when?” Jon smiled.

          “Since Meereen,” Tyrion said.  “Didn’t I ever tell you how I unchained our queen’s dragons?”

          “There might have been too much going on,” Jon said.  “White Walkers.  Politics…”

          “The game of thrones,” Tyrion nodded.

          “So…how many are there?” Jon asked softly.  “How many dragons did she…did Daenerys bring with her—and from where?”

          “I counted six-and-thirty back on Mustafar,” Tyrion said.  “She hatched them on Valyria with the help of our good friend R’hollor.”

          “A red priestess brought her back?” Jon was incredulous.  “But…”

          “But that’s how you came back, once.”  Tyrion nodded.  “It’s strange, isn’t it? The way things rhyme?  Even without the aid of dark wizards.”

          Jon nodded, his hand going absently to his heart.  Where his own men had stabbed him.  There had been time enough for that story.

          “How angry is she with me?” Jon asked.  “I know that’s a stupid question but this prophecy we’re caught in…”  He paused.  “How are you still in her good graces?”

          Tyrion stopped trying to coax the dragon closer and turned towards the opening of the hangar.  Blue sky and brown earth streaked with mountains and snow drifted below him like a dream.  It wasn’t a dream, though.  It was another world.  Another realm undreamt of by any green seer or magi.

          “How is any of this possible?” he said.  “How are we part of another story?  How do I know that Daenerys loves you still?  Or that she’ll forgive you? Or that I’ll ride that dragon?”

          He pointed to their crimson friend--who seemed to be following their conversation with reptilian intelligence.  As he spoke, he somehow knew that he was right.  The dragon was for him.  It was just the right size.

          I always wanted one, he thought.  This whole adventure could be worth it for that fact alone.

          “How can you know any of that?” Jon Snow demanded.  His tone was torn between humor and offense.  Could Tyrion the Imp be toying with him?

          “Everyone knows things now,” said Tyrion.  “Especially the four of you.  You and Ser Kylo, the girl Rey, and Daenerys.  We’re all part of the same thing.”

          But before he could espouse what that thing might be, static crackled and Ser Kylo’s voice came drifting through the Steadfast.

Chapter Text

The Dyad

This is Kylo Ren, the Supreme Leader of the Galaxy.

          This is Rey.  The Last Jedi.  Speaking for General Leia Organa of the Resistance.

          If you can hear this then you know our sides are at war.

          But you also know a power has risen that threatens us all.

          Emperor Palpatine has returned and threatens to make the Galaxy his own. Even now he has assembled a fleet of planet killers.  But he will not destroy our galaxy quickly.

          He will unleash a plague.

          Members of the First Order: you know what befell Naboo.  From Corusant to Battu, Palpatine will do the same.

          Members of the Resistance: you have heard his transmissions and know what he has prophesied threatens to pass.

          It is time to let die those things that should have died.

          It is time to kill the past and save ourselves.

          In eighteen hours our combined forces will converge on Exegol.  The coordinates are being transmitted as we speak.

          We call upon you all, Order and Resistance, all droids and all beings with a willingness to fight, to plan for the invasion of your homeworlds, and, for those who can, to join us on Exegol to fight.

          We no longer speak as Supreme Leader or Jedi.

          We no longer choose to perpetuate this war.

          We declare the struggle between Resistance and Order over. 

          We will fight together, now and always, for the living and against evil.

          Crimes we have committed, we will pay for.

          Crimes committed by others, we will redress.

          But we fight now.

          We fight now.

          Together.

          Together.

          We fight now, together, or we die.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

After the voices came a long pause during which the Galaxy seemed to hold its breath. Tyrion and Jon, poised above Lothal, craned towards the opening of the landing bay as though to catch the sound of cheering from the Resistance camp.

          Then the hidden “Speakers” Rose had attempted to explain to Tyrion (how could such creatures be eternally imprisoned in a wall?) gave a blat and a screech, followed by Rey’s voice.

          “You guys!  Get up here!”  She sounded nervous. 

          Tyrion raced for the nearest lift.

          “Where are you going?” Jon called after him.  It occurred to Tyrion that, from Jon’s perspective, Tyrion seemed to be running toward a solid wall.

          “To the pneumatic lift!” Tyrion waved an arm to get the former Night’s Watchman going.  Jon’s padding step came tentatively until the seamless doors swicked open upon the lift.

          “Gods be good,” Jon muttered as the contraption bore them upward.  “Will this place never stop unnerving me?”

          “Probably not,” Tyrion said.  They made their way to the control room where his words were instantly proven true.

###

Dragons were swarming the planet killer, congregating beneath its hull like a flurry of jeweled butterflies.  The Emperor’s ship was so vast and the dragons so far off, their jets of fire were but the smallest of glittering threads.

          “It’s the cargo bay.”  Ser Kylo craned forward, pearly teeth bared in wrath.  Beside him, Rey had a similar stance: a smaller and more delicate reflection of his anger.

          Tyrion, squinting at the dragons, quickly noticed a pattern to their flight.  They stuck close to the underside of the hull, their distant shapes darting up, now and again, to batter it.

          “They’re trying to keep the bay door from opening,” Ren said.  “Palpatine heard us. The son of a bitch is going to drop another death-pod on us.”

          “Death pod?” Rey asked.

          “A ship full of wights.”  Tyrion raked a hand through his sweaty hair.  “Daenerys’s children are trying to stop him but...” 

          Too small, he thought. They’re too small.  Most of the bigger dragons were still on Naboo.

          Most.  But not all.

          Even as he though it he heard Rose groan. 

          “How do we fire on it?” Rey exclaimed.

          The dragons had lost their fight with the planet killer.  In his mind’s eye, Tyrion saw the drop ship plummeting towards Lothal.

          But by then he was already back in the lift, smashing the metal button that made the thing descend.  Before anyone could stop him he had reached the Steadfast’s landing bay, pelting towards the beast that waited on the lip of the world.

          Panting he held out a hand—and the dragon butted its snout into his palm.  The force of it nearly knocked Tyrion over—a good sign.  This one was big enough.

          “Dohaeris!” Tyrion said, praying his High Valyrian held.

          The red dragon hunkered down and, not quite believing it, Tyrion scrambled up.  It was like scaling a cooling forge—if said forge had had scales and been hung between two wings.  He had gloves at his belt and he slipped them on less he burn his hands on the dragon’s back.  He could only pray to the gods he hated that his errand would be done before his clothes went up in flames.

          How did Daenerys do this all these years? he wondered.

          Then he gripped the spines in a death clench.

          “Sōvēs!” he croaked.

          Then Tyrion Lannister flew.

###

Had he thought looking down upon planets thrilling?  Had he thought leaping through the stars sublime?  All that paled and fled his mind as he soared from the Steadfast on dragon back.

          Since he had been a little boy (littler and more picked upon than most) Tyrion Lannister had wanted a dragon. He would have settled for a hatchling to hold in his hand. 

          The dragons all were dead, then. But now….

          Now!

          “I’M ALIVE!” Tyrion shouted.

          As the wind lashed his face and threatened to unseat him, he laughed so hard his belly hurt.  Tears of joy and wonder rolled down his face—and turned to frozen salt in the stabbing wind.

          It took every shred of willpower he had to collect himself and spur the dragon towards the drop ship: a small and evil-looking craft that, even now, fell towards the planet in a murderous rush.

          “Go!” Tyrion urged the dragon.  He pointed even though the beast couldn’t see, but such tertiary things didn’t seem to matter.  The dragon screamed—and instantly obeyed.  A flutter of smaller dragons swarmed around them as the red dragon dove at the plummeting ship.

          As they drew in upon it, Tyrion felt a stab of dread.  The ship was crusted in daggers of ice.  The smaller dragons let forth with little jets of colored flame—gold and green and violet—but to little effect.  It was no ordinary ice—and its passenger was no ordinary passenger.  Surely there wasn’t room enough in the craft for two.

          Oh, it’s just one, Tyrion knew.  Of course it was.  A hoary King of Winter.  Tyrion had been lucky not to face a proper Walker—but he knew their works well enough.

          For a moment his mind drew him back to Winterfell, to a night he thought would never end. The dry smell of crypts. The terrified screams.  Sansa Stark gripping her dagger as he kissed her hand, preparing to die…

          “DRACARYS!”  The word exploded from him even as the flame from his great, ruby steed.  Shards of ice flew around him.  The dropship grew a tail, changing from ship into a burning, metal star. 

          All around him the dragons shrieked, adding their own fire to his.

          And still they were dropping, dropping, dropping, a vertical dive towards the surface of Lothal.

          “DRACARYS!” Tyrion screamed again.  He and the dragon were directly above the ship.  A solid jet of flame erupted from the beast, piercing the drop ship like a spear.  In the cold, clear air above the earth, the resulting cloud of smoke and embers blew harmlessly over Tyrion’s clinging form.  But the ship kept going.  Not destroyed.  Pierced and flaming, but undeterred.

          The dragon screamed in frustration. 

          From the west came an answering cry.

          The smaller dragons dispersed in a flurry of wings an instant before the behemoth bowled through the space they had occupied.  Tyrion, less nimble and focused myopically on the drop ship, was only saved from collision by the intelligence of his own steed.  Before he knew it had happened he was rushing backwards, his dragon beating its wings to propel itself away.  Tyrion witnessed the moment behemoth met ship and heard a silvery “Dracarys!” before the coming of the flame.

          Drogon! he thought and, even as the drop ship disintegrated, melting in ice and runnels of slag, his eyes had picked out the pale, streaming hair of the woman perched so confidently atop the dragon’s back.

          Daenerys has returned! Tyrion exulted. 

          Drogon shared his enthusiasm.  The black dragon roared triumphantly as it swept through the cloud left by the drop ship. 

          Heart lighter than it had been in quite some time, Tyrion followed them back to the Steadfast.

###

The whole motley crew of heroes met them in the landing bay, Rey and Rose beaming in wonder, R2-D2 rocking manically back-and-forth.  Ser Kylo and Jon Snow hung back in varying attitudes of restraint, though, in the shadows cast by ships and girders they might have been the same man.

          One’s much taller, Tyrion thought.  Then Rose was dashing up to him—and lifting him in a hug.

          “That was so wizard!” the girl exclaimed, squeezing him within an inch of his life.  Tyrion usually disliked being picked up without being asked, but Rose was different and, after the freezing atmosphere, a warm hug was welcome.

          Somehow, we’re friends, he thought, hugging her back.

          “I’m not sure I did that much,” he objected.

          “You flew a dragon!” Rose exclaimed.

          “And delayed that Emperor’s ship so that Drogon could destroy it.” 

          Daenerys’s voice echoed as she spoke, but not in the cold way Tyrion had known of old.  There was a smile in her voice as she touched him on the shoulder.  As he looked up at her he thought there was another change as well.

          The light? he wondered.  There was plenty of that.  Dawn had broken in the east.  That’s not it though, Tyrion thought. 

          “Dany?” a small voice said.

          She looked up.  As the dawnlight caught her eyes Tyrion gasped with the realization.  Perhaps Jon Snow had seen it too.  Perhaps that was what had manned him to speak and come forward.

          The others parted at his approach.  Drogon, standing to one side, whined. 

          “It’s all right, love,” Daenerys murmured, lifting a hand to reassure the beast.  She waited calmly as Jon Snow ventured nearer, as his dark eyes darted, searching her face for hope.  Well short of her he dropped slowly to his knees, his arms held out as if to prove that he carried no blade.  Though his expression was always melancholy, Tyrion had never seen him so close to tears. 

          “Dany,” Jon whispered.  “Oh gods.  Dany.” He froze: a man awaiting pardon.

          Or execution.

          Tyrion sensed it was taking all Jon’s courage simply to rest his eyes upon his former love. To return the gaze of those deep blue eyes where the red stain of Asshai had been washed away.

          “Dany,” Jon whispered again. 

          For a moment, the world hung by a thread.

          Then, Daenerys Targaryen smiled.  A sad, soft smile—but a real one.

          “Jon,” she said.  “Jon Snow.”  She looked around at the rest of them.  “It’s all right,” she said.  “We’re going to win.”

Chapter Text

Kylo

Later, after she had told them, after all the gears and wheels began to turn, with ten hours remaining until Exegol, Kylo Ren stood beside his mother’s bed.

          Machines hummed.  Hollow echoes.  Beeps subsumed by the activity in the camp.  Everyone was preparing to move out.  The roar of ships and the gabbling of voices swirled like storm winds around Leia’s room.

          By the Maker, please don’t make this her tomb.

          He stood and watched her.  The machine’s beeped. 

Princess.  Senator.  General.  Mother.  Call her what you would, she was pale as death.

          Kylo’s hand twitched beside his saber-belt.  The old instinct to draw—and rage—was close.  If not for what Daenerys had told them, he might have, in this moment, posed a flight risk whatever he’d sworn.  After years of pretending he could destroy her, the sight of his mother laid low pierced his heart.  All these years wasted in hatred when he might have loved her.

          When he loved her still.

          The roar of departing ships grew louder.  The area being cleared in case Palpatine tried anything.  The Emperor couldn’t use the planet killer whilst his “heroes” still occupied Lothal, but who knew what vengeance he might decide on later?  Led by the locals who’d flocked to the cause after Rose Tico disrupted the Order’s jamming signal, a full-scale evacuation of Lothal was underway in case the Emperor decided to destroy the planet.  Tico had people working on disabling the monstrous ship and, for a wonder, her team has been joined by hundreds of Order technicians.  Word of what had happened on Naboo had spread and most of the galaxy seemed to understand the threat.

          We’re going to win, Daenerys had said.

          But it wasn’t over yet.  Reports of anarchy were trickling in in the aftermath of Rey and Kylo’s broadcast.  Resistance thinking Leia had been usurped.  Order details attempting usurpations of their own.  Where once Kylo had managed to silence all worlds, the stars now shrieked with communications.  Not everyone believed.  Not everyone was coming.  Not everyone would seek peace when the battle was done.  In some ways he and Rey had done greater harm with that transmission than with any of their wartime exploits.  Everything the woman sleeping before him had fought for dangled on a thread of prophecy.

          “Gods forgive me.”  He’d heard Snow say the words.  He hung his head.  Resisted the urge to take his mother’s hand.  He didn’t feel worthy of it. Maybe he never would.

          “Ben?” A more forgiving hand touched his shoulder.  He hadn’t heard Rey enter the room.

          “Time?” he asked. 

          “We need to get her on the Steadfast.”

          Kylo’s jaw tightened.  For a moment, tears rose behind his eyes.

          He fumbled for Rey’s hand and gripped it. 

          “She’ll have the best care,” Rey reassured him, but even she couldn’t keep the worry from her voice.  Whatever was wrong with Leia was Force-wrought.  A million machines couldn’t help her now.

          “How long to get to Exegol?” Kylo asked.

          “Six hours.”

          “Good.”  His body screamed for sleep.  He would have liked a year, but he’d take what he could get.

          “We’re by the temple when you’re ready.  I parked the Falcon…”

          He groaned.  “I hate that ship.”

          “Do you?” Rey asked solemnly.  “Would you rather have a tent?”

          He smirked—and turned. Only she could do this to him.  Amuse him in the face of death. 

          “Don’t tell me Snow is planning to camp out in this weather?”

          Rey shrugged.  “He likes the cold.  And Daenerys will be with him.”

          Her look was unflinching.  Her grip tightened.  Dragon and Wolf were reunited.  What of the Dyad?

          Despite everything that had befallen him since mounting a dragon on Naboo, Kylo felt his body stir as Rey’s expression ignited his imagination. 

          “The Falcon…” he said.  “It’s…out of the wind.”

          “It is,” Rey said with maddening innocence.

          He nodded.  “Well then.”

          “Well?”

          He cast a last look at his mother.  “Let’s let the medics do their work.”

          Rey nodded and led him from the tent, out into the wind-lashed landscape of Lothal.

###

The fields, freed of spacecraft, were brown and scarred, pitted with a million frost-lined footprints.  Overhead, the planet killer lurked like an omen, the Steadfast tiny and helpless beside it.  The sparkle of ships-- both Resistance and Order—lingered at the edge of the atmosphere.  Kylo had the momentary impression that a thousand eyes looked down on him.  All those ships, either fleeing Lothal, or hanging in atmo, waiting to jump.

          Not everyone had departed yet.  As he and Rey neared the Jedi temple, he saw a squad of Dameron’s X-wings.  The Resistance pilot’s lead ship was snugged up by a mobile fuel station.  FN-2187

          Finn, damn it.  His name is Finn!

stood to the side, speaking none-too-comfortably with Tico.  The girl’s crossed arms and downturned head suggested a rift between the two.  Kylo felt a brief, dark flash of satisfaction.  The goody-good Resistance wasn’t without its quarrels.  But more interesting than the girl or the ex-Stormtrooper was the strange assemblage of people standing nearby.

          Is Hataska a person? Kylo wondered. He’d spied the albino in his tank once, but hadn’t lingered to determine the man’s species.  Hataska was either an extremely skinny man or an unusually shaped Caminoan. 

          Or something else. 

          What Hataska was now, was backup.  Another pair of Knights and several fire priests, including Kinvara, stood behind him.  All waited with an anticipatory air as Tico and FN-Goddamn-Finn finished their talk.  Kylo felt certain that if the girl were to weep, Hataska would order his crew forward.  From the perturbed look on Finn’s face as he drew away, Kylo wasn’t the only one.

          “They need her sharp,” Rey murmured.  “They’re trying to support her since she’s basically running the aerial attack.”

          Kylo smirked.  “There’s some recompense: Dameron and 2187—Finn having to take orders from her.”

          “We do what we have to,” Rey said.

          The words stopped Kylo in his tracks.  All the doubts and hopes and risks Daenerys had told them of ricocheted through his exhausted mind.

          And then, as if his thought had summoned her, here she came, the Queen of Dragons, strolling towards them across the grass.  The dwarf and Snow were with her, but she broke away and the two men

          Is Tyrion a man?

hung back to discuss something.  Snow knelt, surely marring his Jedi robes, to bring himself to Tyrion’s level.

          But then Daenerys was in front of him and he tensed, as Rey did, awkward and unsure.

          “Alright?” the queen asked.  He had to stop himself staring.  He wasn’t used to her new, human eyes.  She looked so much lighter now, ethereal, as if some terrible burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

          “It will be alright if it goes like you say,” Rey said.  “Nothing’s decided until the end.”  There was no animosity in her voice. 

          “That’s true,” Daenerys said.  “But we have a chance.  And you—both of you—are strong.”

          She smiled.  Had there ever been such a smile?  It turned the muddled winter light into the dawn.  Rey reached compulsively for Daenerys’s arm and they gripped each other, hand-to-elbow like two warriors.  If the sun turned the dragon queen to golden white, it lit Rey with a warmer, fiercer gleam.  Kylo had never seen her on her native Jakku, but she seemed to come alive with the radiance of the desert.

          “I will do all I can,” she vowed.

          “We all will.”  Both of them turned to Kylo.  “I know what I must do,” he reassured them—but his back teeth ached.  The light chose that moment to dim.  For an instant the women’s two lovely faces flickered as if both were on the edge of tears.

          “Whatever I have to,” he said, more firmly.  “I won’t leave you to face Palpatine alone.”

          The wretched image from the temple flashed before him.  Rey dead.  The wound smoking where his saber had pierced her.  His own presence unaccounted for as Daenerys bore his blade towards the darkling throne.

          I won’t leave you, Rey, he swore, silently.

          There was little more to say.

          He and Rey walked on.

###

The Millennium Falcon perched by the remains of the temple, a relic with its own fading legends and ghosts.  Rey had left the gangway down and two droids were on duty—BBs 8 and 39.  They looked more like a standoff than a unit.  Kylo sensed Threenine would rather guard the tent (the command tent, as it happened) commandeered to house Snow and Daenerys on what might be their last night together.  As Rey patted BB-8 in greeting, Threenine grumbled and rolled off to the side.

          Neither droid was necessary.

          The whole site was surrounded by wolves.

          Kylo’s flesh tingled as he began to notice their figures rising out of the grass and the dusk.  The Loth-wolves had spread out in a circle, all sitting so still they might have been stone.  There were hundreds of them.  Not all visible.  Their presence was a suspended wave.  Vigilant.  Waiting.  They knew the temple.  Knew their way to other worlds if Lothal should fall.  As it had with the golden dragon on Naboo, Kylo’s heart swelled with protective wrath.  No harm would befall them if he could help it.  These sacred creatures could not be allowed to perish on a whim.

          Tico will take out the control ship, he told himself.  All the planet killers, she’d discovered, shared the same shield generator.  Her coalition of Order and Resistance techs would take it out once they jumped to Exegol, but even if they took time to locate the thing, Kylo intended to make a pest of himself.  The heroes would reach Exegol in tandem with the Steadfast.  Once Kylo set foot on it, Palpatine’s days of giving orders would end.

          Force, I’m so sorry, he thought at the wolves.  He knew his anger was far from righteous.  His own pursuit of power had led to this: the galaxy distracted while cosmic evil rose.  How vain and pathetic it all seemed now, in the dusk, with the wolves, and Rey’s hand in his own.

          “Ben?” Her voice shook him from his trance.  She was looking at him with huge, gold-tinged eyes.  Her voice was low and breathy, mingling with the wind.  “Come inside with me,” she said.

###

The first thing he noticed was the smell—as if someone had actually cleaned the ship in recent memory.  To him, the Falcon had always smelled antique: a combination of mechanic’s oil, empty nog bottles, and leather; the fading leather of the seats and bulkhead paneling, and of his father’s jackets, vests, and boots.  Not entirely unpleasant, but certainly bachelor-like.  And with an undertone of sweat from the nail-biting anxiety of its passengers. The Falcon was battered because it had faced death.

          Now it smelled pleasantly of beeswax.

          What the hell? he thought.

          Next he noticed the light.  An altar of candles adorned the holochess table. Below it was a wide mattress neatly tucked with woven blankets.  The ambiance was so unexpectedly cozy Kylo blinked to make sure what he was seeing was real.

          Rey snorted.

          “I might be an anonymous scavenger,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean I want to live in a pile of garbage.”

          Kylo flinched and turned to her, taking both her hands in his.

          “I’m so sorry for everything,” he rasped.  Suddenly, his knees were giving out.  Exhaustion.  Warmth.  It was so warm here.  So snug and candlelit and thick with possibilities. 

          The force of his desire overtook him, melting his limbs like hot wax.  As his legs buckled, leaving Rey taller than him for once, she pulled him closer, his hands a warm knot between their bodies.  She kissed him roughly, hungrily.  Then her slim, hard body was wrapped around his own.

          “You kriffing idiot,” she said, kissing him, dragging him forcibly onto the bed. She sunk beneath him, taking his weight, taking his kiss and his touch and his breath.

          For a brief, sweet time, they strove together, hearts and bodies moving and gliding as one.  When he came it was with her name on his lips and the promise of sleep beyond that last, bright horizon.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

“I don’t want it,” Tyrion protested as Jon pressed the dagger into his hand.  Gods knew it was hypocritical of him.  Daenerys had died on its point at his urging.  Seeing it, though—and being asked to take it—made something shrivel in his soul.  Why not just hand him a Dornish viper?  A quick, clean death, rather than a long, guilt-ridden wasting?

          “Please,” Jon insisted.  He folded Tyrion’s hands around the hilt.  “I don’t want it between us.  Not tonight.”  He glanced into the dwimmering daylight. Daenerys was some ways off, speaking to Rey and Ser Kylo.  Rey and Daenerys were clutching arms the same way Daenerys had with Yara Greyjoy: a great pact that had fizzled into nothingness.  After Daenerys’s death, Yara bent the knee to Bran and brought the Iron Islands back into the realm, but half the Ironborn rebelled when she outlawed reaving and raping and, though she won the official war, most of the Iron Queen’s time was spent guarding the trade routes from former countrymen who’d turned pirate.

          It would have been different with dragons, Tyrion thought.  Even if Daenerys had only had Drogon.  The reasonableness of Yara’s “Rock Laws” would have been seen more clearly if they’d been illuminated by dragon fire.

          Tyrion sighed.  It was his fault of course.  The knife in his hand had prevented Daenerys’s rise.  Not that he had had any choice, but at least he could accept what he’d done.  When Jon stood again, Tyrion was clutching the dagger and feeling both soiled and tremendously tired.

          “Remember when I told you to ask me in ten years if we’d done the right thing?” he asked. 

          Jon nodded.  “I never stopped thinking about it.”

          Daenerys was coming towards them across the grass, her silvery hair blowing in the wind.

          “I think we did what we had to,” Tyrion said, “and now we have a chance to atone.” He tucked the cursed dagger away beneath his cape as Daenerys reached them, smiling softly.

          “May we all atone,” she said, her hand flitting briefly to her breast.  Jon Snow flinched—and so did Tyrion, if for different reasons.  He still found it incredibly unnerving when Daenerys or Ser Kylo plucked his thoughts from the air.

          “It’s the Force,” Daenerys shrugged.  “Can’t you feel it growing?”  She indicated the wide field and the waiting wolves.  Most of the Loth-wolves had settled into the grass, but a few heads poked upwards, keeping watch.  Tyrion had a powerful intuition that no harm would come to the Resistance this night.

          “I don’t think I sense it as much as you do, my lady,” he said. 

          “I feel it,” Jon muttered.  “It feels like standing at the top of the Wall.”

          “Well then, let’s make sure we don’t plummet!”  The grin Tyrion offered them turned to a grimace in the wind.  Oh, this was eerie.  Too much like those hours, dark and frozen, before the Long Night.

          A silence fell between the three of them.  Tyrion became aware that he stood, the odd man out, between two lovers.  Jon eyed Daenerys with painful hope, while the queen’s face was composed and inscrutable as a sphinx.

          I wonder if they’ll make love, Tyrion thought before he could stop himself.  He knew what he’d have done if it had been his last night on earth.  If he stood in Daenerys Targaryen’s good graces after events and separations worthy of great songs.

          Which made him a letch and an imp, of course.  And very much like a certain loathsomely handsome Lord of Ren…

          “Tyrion,” Daenerys whispered—and Tyrion cringed. Of course she had read his mind.

          “You are no imp,” his former queen told him.  “You may find that you do much good before long.”

          “Oh certainly,” Tyrion mumbled.  How like Bran she sounded.  You will have the love you’ve always sought—and peace for a hundred years.  That’s what the Broken King had promised—but love and peace seemed off the table for the nonce.  Deep in his bones Tyrion Lannister sensed that only dread awaited him, and he shivered at another gust of wind, this one accompanied by a reptilian cheep! as his red dragon landed clumsily nearby.

          “Ah. Tysha,” he said.  “It’s you.”

          The red beast made a happy sound and waddled towards him.  Tyrion thought it had grown a bit bigger since that morning. Perhaps there was something to this “growing Force” idea.  Bigger was certainly better.  The more dragon Tyrion could put between himself and the coming conflict, the happier he’d be.

          Hopefully it won’t come to that, he thought as the dragon came nearer.  He and Rose were supposed to stay on the Steadfast and keep in touch with the battle from afar.

          He raised his hand to touch the dragon’s nose and heard the soft approach of footsteps.  Rose ventured over to him, her expression drained but jaw set in a way that said: “time to go.”

          “Well,” Tyrion said, “I suppose this is goodbye. Until, of course, we stand victorious over evil.”

          “Not quite,” Daenerys said.  “I have a task for you.”

          “If it involves a dagger,” Tyrion began, but now he heard a vast flapping of wings.  Tysha raised her ruby head and warbled with unease as Drogon set down a short distance across the field.  At least, the huge beast’s body set down.  Its long head craned effortlessly forward to linger above Daenerys.

          “I want you to keep an eye on Drogon,” Daenerys said.  “The four of us will travel to Exegol through the temple, but Drogon must go with you and the others.”

          “The other dragons?” Rose Tico said behind him.  Her voice quavered, as if she’d forgotten that part of the plan.  The Steadfast’s landing bay was currently lousy with dragons, all of whom would be joining the Resistance on Exegol.  The ship would also transport the remainders of Daenerys’s army: the Shadow warriors of Asshai and the Red Priests.  Tyrion had no idea what the mere mortals among them thought they could do except die and turn to ice if Palpatine met them with Wights, but anyone who could make fire out of air would be welcome, and so the Steadfast would make for a lively transport.

          “Drogon is welcome,” Tyrion said.  “But won’t he just fly back to you once we reach Exegol?”

          “He may,” Daenerys said.  “But that would be disobedient.”  She raised an eyebrow and Drogon hissed in irritation. “I don’t want him speared like my other children,” she said.

          Tyrion nodded.  The death of Rhaegal at Dragonstone still hurt to think of.  And Viserion had suffered a similar fate.  It made sense Daenerys would try to protect her last true “child.”  Tyrion doubted he could prevent Drogon’s “disobedience,” however.   The black dragon was as determined as his mistress, and as protective of those he loved. 

          “You will obey Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys said, gently stroking the dragon’s throat. Drogon whined and stamped, making the earth tremble, then settled dejectedly on his haunches.

          “Thank you, Tyrion,” Daenerys said.  She touched him gently on the shoulder.

          Tyrion bowed, his heart stuttering within him.  So much he wished to say: Farewell!  Or: Don’t go!

          In the end, for no reason he could think of, he muttered something he’d hear General Organa say.

          “May the Force be with you, my lady,” he said.

          Her hand fell away.  She and Jon Snow vanished into the dusk.

          Tyrion turned towards Rose Tico and the sight of a dozen spacecraft rising up from the prairie.  Kinvara, Hataska and their followers waited expectantly in the distance along with their own craft—and two other dragons.  It would be quite a caravan up to the Steadfast.

          “Gods be good.” He stifled a yawn.  “Are we ready to get out of this wind?”  The sharp breeze continued its slow torment of Lothal.  The only warmth here was Rose’s weary smile.

          “Do you want to lead us, Lord Tyrion?”  She nodded towards the eager figure of his dragon.

          Despite himself, Tyrion grinned.

          “If you’ll ride with me,” he said.

          Rose, still pale from her discussion with Finn, brightened.

          “Oh wow…really?”  She eyed Tysha as Tyrion once had her namesake: trepidations but full of hope.

          A short time later, everyone was flying, warm in ships and on dragons, up into the stars.

Chapter Text

Daenerys

They did not speak for a long time.  They sat, instead, in the warmth of the command tent.  General Organa’s people had made it cozy for them, with rich rugs and a pair of soft mattresses close together.  Jon sat on one and Daenerys sat on the other.  Ghost snored quietly, asleep in a corner.  The wind howled outside and pressed against the walls.

          “Dany,” Jon said, eventually.  Tentatively, he reached for her hands.  Tears shimmered in his dark eyes.  When she took his hands, he drew a shuddering breath as though he’d feared she was a spirit his touch would pass through.

          “It’s all right,” she said.  “I’m here.”

          “Nothing is all right.  Nothing has been right.”

          “Hush,” Daenerys said.  “That was another time.  Another world.”

          Another woman.

          “I killed you,” Jon said.

          Daenerys only nodded.  His betrayal, which had hurt for so long, had faded somewhere between Naboo and the Jedi temple. 

          “You did what you thought what right,” she said softy, “I know that, now.  And I know it was my fault, whatever Palpatine did.  I wanted the Iron throne beyond all reason.  I never thought not to want it.  Not once.  And it destroyed me.”

          She paused. “No.  That’s wrong.  It destroyed everything. Kingdoms.  Families.  Women.  Children.”  For the first time since the temple she felt her calm slip.  She knew she’d done evil but now she could feel it.  Feel the contours of the path she—and she alone—had paved.  Thrones and power and magic had seeded that path, but those first dark seeds had always been in her heart.  Even without Palpatine’s interference they may well have borne the same awful fruit. 

          She swallowed and tried to collect herself, squeezing Jon’s hands as he squeezed hers.

          “It didn’t feel like you,” Jon said.  “You became something you never were, in your heart.  If only you had been a horrible tyrant I’d have slept better these last ten years.”

          “And how have you slept, Jon Snow?” She freed a hand long enough to wipe the tears from her cheeks.  She did not wish to revisit her last days on the earth, or the things which had twisted and broken her.  If she looked back she truly would be lost—and she must remain whole until her purpose was achieved.

          “I slept alone, mostly,” Jon said.

          “I find that hard to believe.”

          He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably.  “I do have children.”

          “Children?” Should she laugh or cry?  She decided to laugh.  “Well, there we are.  Unless—they aren’t bear children like that man Torren used to joke about?”

          “Tormund Giantsbane,” he corrected her gently.  “But no.  Their mother was mortal.  I think.”

          “Was?”

          “It can be hard to tell with wildling women,” he said.  Then: “She died two years ago.  Took sick from a fever.  Wore herself out caring for our girls.”

          In the corner, Ghost whined in his sleep.  Jon smiled.  “Who’d have known Ghost would outlive my wife?”

          “I’m so sorry,” Dany said, and meant it.  “But your children…?”

          “Sansa and Arya,” Jon smiled.  “Fierce girls.”  He paused.  “They aren’t bastards, Daenerys.  Val and I…she let me marry her in front of the heart tree…”

          Suddenly his shoulders began to shake.  Without thinking, Daenerys gathered him into her arms.  It didn’t matter anymore, those things they had done to each other in a world that seemed a thousand worlds away.  It didn’t matter that they had been torn apart, that they had hated or killed or betrayed all they had loved.  Words were wind and the dead were dead and if they looked back now…

          Why look back now?

          “You were never a bastard,” Dany said in the moment before she kissed the familiar mouth in its scruff of beard.  “You were a prince.  A hero.  A Lord Commander.  You were the man I loved.  Who stole my heart.”

          His body convulsed.  Half a laugh, half a sob.  His warm hand moved to cover her breast.  It should have scared her, made her move away.  Instead, she pressed closer, hands working to undo his robes.   

          At last they faced each other, naked from navel to nose.  The only light came from a pair of lamps placed on the floor.  His skin glowed pale white, his old scars faded.  Dany could only imagine what she must look like.

          “Gods I’m so sorry,” he whispered to her, touching the wound on the inner slope of her breast.  His touch was feather-light and gentle, just the backs of his calloused fingers.  She took his hand and kissed it and held it against her.

          “The only one who needs be sorry is the Emperor,” she said.

          For an instant, she thought she had disturbed him.  His body stilled as if frozen in time.  She feared his eyes would flick upwards, their own fear trapped inside, remembering her as a vengeful queen.         

          Then his fingers tightened over hers.  Not fear. 

          Reassurance.

          Commitment.

          “Aye,” he said, and kissed her and kissed her.

          And so they passed a most pleasant night.

Chapter Text

Finn

He woke too early from his tortured dream and lay cold and sweat-slicked, nestled in the crook of Poe’s arm.  Poe had stopped dying in his dreams.  Now it was Rey. And it was always the same.

          Ren kills her.  A flash of red.  A silent crumpling.  A darkness as she fell to the floor.  But, in real life, Rey trusted the smirking Sith bastard.  When Finn had confronted her sometime between Leia’s collapse and his own excruciating attempt to apologize to Rose, Rey had only given him a tired smile, squeezed his arm and assured him: “We know what we’re doing.”  The Smirking Sith Bastard, continually lurking nearby, had raised his head at that and smiled as if he knew what they were discussing, and Rey had drifted back to him in that eerie, Force-buzzed was as if the two of them were magnetized.   Somehow, Rey loved the Smirking Sith Bastard and, though Finn absolutely, one-hundred-precent hated it, the Smirking Sith Bastard loved her back.

          The Force is fucked, Finn decided.  So how was it going to happen?  How would it all go wrong?

          At some point, he dropped back into hazy grayness.  He wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t awake either. 

          The slash of Ren’s lightsaber (that stupid, pretentious, completely impractical lightsaber!) flashed behind his eyelids and he woke again, screaming.

          “Rey!”

          His heart sped light years per minute.  Beside him, Poe groaned, an arm flung dramatically over his eyes.

          “Dreams not better, huh?” he mumbled.

          “No,” Finn said.  “He’s going to kill her.”

          “We shoulda smashed his face in when we had the chance,” Poe said.  “That’s what I dream of.”

          “Must be why you sleep so well,” Finn said.

          Poe’s lazy, bedroom smile curved his lips. “I sleep well for lots of good reasons,” he drawled.  Finn felt a twitch of desire—but he knew the klaxon would blare any minute.

          “So you’re still in love with Rey?” he teased—or not entirely.  He loved her too.  And Rose.  But not—

          “Not like I love you, Finn.”  When Poe removed his arm his face was serious.  “You know that, right?  It’s been you since you helped me escape Ren’s ship.”

          Finn smiled.  He remembered that breathless flight too well—and the utter devastation when they’d crashed.  Having just met the first person who’d seen him as a person, he’d been devastated to find no trace of Poe in the wreckage.  In the meantime, he’d formed a crush on Rey—but when Poe proved to be living, Finn’s relief had been cosmic-level.  All the bonds and loves and friendships he’d had since then had helped him heal from his Order programming, but Poe was special and now he knew it, and, after twenty odd years, he finally felt whole.

          Whether that wholeness would last the day…well.  Wasn’t that the three million credit question?

          On cue, the klaxon rang out, red lights flashing urgently over the bed.  Poe had taken up residence in General Hux’s quarters, after having them thoroughly cleaned by a crew of janitor droids.  (The former Order recruits who’d joined their fleet with the New Resistance, had been most obliging with their resources.)  Hux’s living space was too florid for Finn (how many burgundy throw pillows did one psychopath need?) but he’d been fascinated to discover Hux’s lightsaber collection—and also disgusted as Hux had clearly stolen them from museums and tombs.  Stealing from the dead was the height of cowardice. General Grievous Hux was not. 

          The lightsabers glowed around him now as he slipped out of bed and drew on his clothes.  He tossed Poe’s socks and vest to him.  Their clothes had gotten mixed up in the frenzied passion of the night before.

          “I’m going to wear all clean things for once,” Poe muttered, tugging a duffle bag out from under one of Hux’s low, black tables.  He left his socks and underwear on Hux’s bed and was soon dressed in a fresh jumpsuit, looking amazing, as always.  Poe was one of those lucky SOBs who only got better looking on a diet of late nights and scant sleep.  As he moved around the bed, kindly picking up Finn’s boots as he went, Finn felt a swell of love and suddenly flung his arms around him.

          Poe hugged him back and Finn kissed his scratchy, five-o-clock shadow.  The warmth of Poe’s body made his heart and groin ache.  Force!  He wanted to live!   

          But people were going to die today.

          “All fighters to battle stations!” a voice boomed over the comm.  “We’ll reach Exegol in one hour.”

          He and Poe broke apart.  It was Rose.  She was running things now. Though the three of them had come to an understanding, neither Finn nor Poe felt great about how things had played out.  True, Poe had only kissed Finn in front of everyone because he’d thought they were going to be incinerated by a dragon—but hurting Rose felt about as bad. 

          “Finn,” Poe said, breaking him from a stupor. “It’ll be all right, buddy.  We’re going to win.”  He smiled and squeezed Finn’s arm in reassurance—then bent and snatched something off the bed.  Finn’s belt.  Luke Skywalker’s saber safely attached in its holster.  Poe handed it over.

          “We’re going to win,” he insisted.

          Finn nodded but, following Poe from the room, he remembered a flash of crimson and had to wonder.

###

The strobing lights had ceased by the time they reached the bridge.  The Steadfast was bustling, though, compared with its heyday, it was a skeleton crew.  Chewie and Rose were there, and Artoo and Threepio, and several mingled Resistance and Order, getting along surprisingly well.  There was a new girl, Jana, once a Stormtrooper, who’d taken command over the ex-Order folks and was running around with a pair of former comrades on her heels.  All of them had reverted to civilian wear and seemed exhilarated as they checked in with Rose for their marching orders.

          Poe jogged up to Rose—and almost tripped over Tyrion Lannister, who’d been camouflaged behind Artoo.  The dwarf stepped back indignantly as Poe accidently bumped him with his leg.

          “Whoa! Sorry, Tyrion,” Poe said.  “I uh…I didn’t see you standing there.”  He flashed Rose a look as if to say: “What the hell’s this guy doing on the bridge?”

          Rose scowled.

          “You should be with Red Squadron, Poe.”

          “Wanted to check in first,” Poe said.  “Leia always held a little pep talk.  I didn’t know if you were planning on anything.”

          “I…” Rose sighed.  “I haven’t had time.”

          “It’s almost like you had a war to plan,” Tyrion said.  He gave Poe and Finn an “I’m embarrassed for you” look.  Poe bristled, but Finn touched his arm to calm him.  The dwarf was right.

          “It’s okay,” Finn said.  “As long as we know when to launch the attack—that’s all we need.”

          “Yeah, all right,” Poe said.  “I guess…”

          “No, Poe’s right,” Rose said.  “Leia always did—always does say something great.”  She paused.  Finn felt everyone’s mind turn to Leia, secured in the Steadfast’s glittering med-bay, unmoving…. “It’s not gonna be me though,” Rose continued.  “If anyone speaks it should be you, Commander Dameron.”

          Poe looked a little taken aback.  “Oh. Hey,” he said.  “I wasn’t trying to…Rose if you want to kick us off, you’re the real Commander.”

          Rose snorted.  “I’d rather jump in a saarlac pit.  You do it Poe.  I’m just the mechanic.”

          “You’re way more than that,” Poe said.

          “Way more,” Finn agreed—then cringed.  So lame, he thought.  After how we hurt her…

          But Rose smiled and, in that moment, the hurt faded some.  The three of them glanced between themselves and a subtle tension released like an exhalation. 

          “All right then,” Poe said presently.  “I’ll make the speech from the cockpit.”  He looked around at everyone and Finn sensed a sudden flicker of doubt, as if Poe had just realized he might never see all these people in the same place again.

          Poe being Poe, he shook it off.  A moment later, he was nothing but resolve.

          “Okay,” he said.  “Good luck to all of you.”

          “May the Force be with you,” Rose said.

          Poe smiled.  “And you.  C’mon Finn.”

###

Everything had been planned out the day before so there wasn’t much to do but board their ships and wait.  The stars zoomed past the vast portal of the hangar bay while hundreds of X-wings and Tie-fighters performed their last systems check.  Perched above the bay, dozens of dragons waited, presided over by fire priestesses and Knights of Ren. 

          “This is amazing,” Poe said over a private comm-link.

          “Yeah,” Finn agreed.  “I never thought I’d fly with dragons or fight alongside the Order.”

          “Not that!” Poe said.  “Chewie’s gonna pilot an X-wing!” 

          “Really?” Finn asked.

          “He and Artoo are in the van!  Chewie’s so good with that bowcaster, we forget he was Han Solo’s co-pilot on the Falcon.”

          Finn laughed.  It was true.  Chewie also had a longer lifespan.  He’d piloted ships in the Clone Wars and could probably blow up enemy spacecraft in his sleep.

          “Wizard,” Finn whispered over the commlink.

          The klaxon sounded and the red lights strobed.

          “Attention all squadrons,” came Rose’s voice.  “We’re on our final approach to Exegol.  ETA five minutes.  Commander Dameron—you have some words?”

          Finn heard the staticky click as Poe switched from their private channel, and a brief stutter of feedback as the Steadfast’s PA engaged. His voice would be transmitted to every channel in the New Resistance’s makeshift fleet.

###

 “This is your Commander, Poe Dameron.  I want to thank you--all of you--for coming to our aide. I don’t think any of us know what to expect on Exegol--but I do know it’s going to be the fight of our lives.  Our lives—all of us--Order or Resistance, regular citizens or agnostics to any cause.  It’s us, together, who are going to make the difference.  It’s all of us, together, who are going to end this war.  All these years, we’ve all been pitted against one another, but now we face a common foe.  Emperor Palpatine doesn’t care what side you’re on.  He doesn’t care about the First Order or the Resistance or the Galaxy.  The only thing our enemy cares about is power…and today we’re taking it back from him.

          “If you’re here, I want you to know that you are heroes.  If you’ve done evil in the past, consider yourself redeemed.  Consider yourself the last and greatest defense of the Galaxy and—if you believe in it—may the Force be with you.”

###

Poe’s voice cut off.  From the seat of his X-wing Finn saw his fellow Resistance members applauding.  A subtle, powerful upswell in the Force made him feel that, for an instant, the whole fleet was as one.

          Then the stars beyond the hangar screeched to a halt and the Steadfast shot towards a murky planet.  Blue and violet lightnings crackled across its surface and turbulence rocked Star Destroyer like a slap.

          “Hold for attack,” came Rose’s voice over the comms.  “Atmo breach in ten seconds.”

          “Red and Black squadrons, stabilize your landing gear!” Poe commanded.  There was a clunk! as the Ties and X-wings locked themselves to the deck.  The Steadfast continued to jolt with teeth-clattering convulsions.  A green dragon tumbled off a ledge and rolled across the runway.  With an audible shriek it righted itself and launched itself out into the sky.   Finn saw it, silhouetted by lightning a moment, before it vanished into a bank of swirling clouds.

          The Steadfast gave another jolt, then settled and continued its drop through atmo.  Finn, free of nausea despite the gruesome turbulence, felt his stomach drop away as the clouds parted.

          Exegol, draped in vapor, struck by unholy lightning, was a dry, cracked sphere like a fractured skull.  But this was not what brought the blood singing to his ears or turned his limbs to lead with creeping terror.

          There were ships.  So many ships. Planet killers all.  Huge triangles of death hovering in rows before him.

          Below, squirming endlessly over the ground was the frozen army of the dead.

          “Ahh fuck…”  Poe hadn’t turned off his comm.  His ragged breath huffed in the ears of the fleet.

          Finn didn’t think anyone had noticed.  The ships.  The dead.  The rising scream of that dragons…

          “Fuck,” Poe said again.  “Fuck.  Everyone, welcome to Exegol.”

Chapter Text

Kylo

The temple opened to the sound of howling wolves.

          Kylo, on the threshhold, instinctively ignited his blade.  That’s what it was here for, after all.  His crazed, unstable blade like the crazed, unstable parts of his soul, were supposed to save the kriffing galaxy.

          Rey tightened her grip on his free hand and gave him an amazingly contented smile.  Beside them, BB’s 8 and 39 warbled apprehensively as the door to the World Between Worlds widened.    

          “Why are they here again?” Kylo muttered—more to vent his own apprehension than anything else.  Everything had been wonderful until he woke an hour ago and realized he was going to die.  “I thought it was supposed to be just the four of us,” he continued.  “Not us four, two droids and a wolf.”

          “Your ex-girlfriend says they have a role to play,” Rey teased with that sly, sunny smile that made him want to weld his body to hers like beskar.  “We’ve decided to trust the Force, remember?”

          “Yeah.”  Kylo drew a huge, not-quite-calming breath.  What else could they do, really?  The game was set.  The pieces were moving.

          The cosmic doorway whirled wider and wider, erasing the mural on the temple-face and revealing the dark expanse beyond with its infinite blackness and celestial highways.  As Kylo stepped into the other realm the last thing he saw were the paintings of the wolves.  The drawings chased each other frantically around the portal while their real-life counterparts howled and howled.

          Is it triumph? he wondered.  Anguish? Defiance?  What fresh hell would the Force serve up today?

          Then abruptly the howling stopped.  When he glanced back, the door to Lothal was sealed behind them.  Within the door-like portal gray grass flickered as if no one had stood there in a thousand years.

          Kylo Ren, once Ben Solo, began to sweat.

          “Come,” Daenerys called ahead of them.  “We have to find the door to Exegol.”

###

It didn’t take long.  The feeling that had shadowed him since on Lothal had only intensified overnight.  A feeling of connection between himself and Rey—and their connection, in turn, to Snow and Daenerys.  Even the wolf and the droids were part of it: all firing on the same cylinder, moving towards the same place.

          Currently, that place was a throbbing purplish scar, rearing on their left as they came to the center of a crossroads.  Kylo didn’t have to get close to recognize their destination—or to know that they were exactly on time.  When Rey and Snow had entered the World Between Worlds they’d been gone for three days.  Daenerys had assured them of a shorter travel to Exegol.  The spirit of the Daughter had told her something. 

          Or maybe it was the Force. 

          Or Palpatine.

          As they reached the crossroads and turned to take the highway toward the scar, a low rumbling caught Kylo’s ear.  He gritted his teeth and tightened his hand on his saber, then realized it was Snow’s wolf.  The beast growled louder the closer they came to the portal—that flickering rip in the fabric of time.

          “Easy Ghost,” Snow said.  He paused a moment to comfort the animal.  Kylo wondered what the hell was wrong with him, bringing that old, bedraggled carpet to a death match.  Ghost was large but his best days were behind him. The creature’s love for Snow seemed the only thing keeping him alive.

          In a moment, Ghost’s growl gave way to panting—and to the low, worried chirring of the droids.  The two BB units rolled slowly onwards in front of Kylo, keeping so far apart from one another he worried they might roll off their respective sides of the path.  Their anxious whining was charged with mutual dislike, as if each unit resented his counterpart for being there to see him scared

          “Oi! Beebee, Threenine,” Rey hissed.  “You’re not helping.”

          A sullen, mechanical silence fell as the party reached the door.

          “Something doesn’t feel right,” Rey said. 

          Kylo grimaced.  “You’re telling me.”  The rip seemed bigger than it had been and, save for random spurts of lightning, much darker.

          “Wasn’t it red?” Jon Snow asked. 

          Rey nodded.  “The red star.”

          “It’s been in my dreams,” Kylo grated.  “Every dream, every vision--”

          “So is this the wrong door?” Snow asked.

          “No.” Daenerys stood motionless before the portal, her white-blonde hair gleaming as it caught the lightnings.  Though she had undergone a remarkable transformation since he’d met her, something in her voice sent Kylo hurtling back to Mustafar. For an instant, the whole World Between Worlds seemed to still, leaving her voice to echo in the darkness.

          “Dany.” Snow spoke gently, but his tone shivered like the chill now creeping slowly up Kylo’s spine. 

          I want them dead, she’d once told him.  All my enemies…

          Yes.  He recognized that tone.

          Perhaps sensing his doubt, Daenerys turned.  Her new, blue eyes met his like lasers.  She might be bound to Snow as Kylo to Rey but, from the first there had been an understanding between them. If Rey and Snow were steady, implacable ice, then Daenerys and Kylo were ever-changeable fire. 

          Has she changed again? Kylo wondered.  His grip on his saber was murderous.  A few moments ago, he’d have thought Daenerys calm—but now her Force signature flared like its own deadly star.

          “This is our path,” Daenerys said.  She faced them: resolute.  Merciless.  “I have not lied or misled you.  If the star is not here, it will be.  All I have said will come to pass—but we must not falter—and we must not resist.”

          From the ragged slit behind her came the sound of voices. A dark, low chanting…

          And a distant, creeping laugh.

          I’m scared, Kylo thought.  He could have laughed too.  Insanely. He resisted the urge.   

          “We have to trust each other,” Rey said, beside him. 

          “And in the Force,” Daenerys said.

          Kylo, his throat dry, could only nod.  And squeeze Rey’s hand until she uttered a quiet “ouch!”

          “I don’t know about the Force,” Jon Snow said.  He moved to Daenerys and cupped her cheek.  “I trust you, Dany. Now and always.”  His voice became a whisper at the last.

          He doesn’t quite believe her, Kylo knew.  After what happened between then, he’d be mad not to doubt.

          Even so, Jon Snow drew Leia’s saber.  As he ignited it, it limbed him and Daenerys in blue.  Daenerys’s expression softened a moment—long enough to let the woman show through the queen.

          “Believe,” she told Jon.  “Trust.”

          Snow nodded but did not speak.

          He and Daenerys turned to the portal.

          It would have to be enough.

###

A dark wind ruffled Kylo’s hair as he followed the rest of them into Exegol.  The droids, in the middle, muttered their unease.  Lightnings flashed.  The menacing chant grew louder.

          Then…

          Kylo’s gut churned as his feet thumped down on the icy floor of the Emperor’s throne room.  Here it was.  Here they were.  Here was the throne.  The comparative warmth of the World Between Worlds faded.  A deathly chill hung over this place, the air as still and dry as a meatpacker’s freezer.

          “Welcome, my friends!” croaked a ghastly voice. 

          The Force snapped to attention between Kylo and his companions. 

          A blast of lighting illuminated the room.  The vast chamber was filled with figures.  A wide entryway lay on Kylo’s left, letting out into some other cavernous space.  Above it and curving around behind the four “heroes” until it terminated on the far right of the chamber, was a monstrous amphitheater of ancient stone, packed with people in hooded black robes.  The color of their garments so perfectly matched the dark that Kylo couldn’t see them without the lightning.  If not for that flash he might have thought the walls were singing—and not the faceless creatures

          (Sith eternal)

who served the man upon the throne.

          On his left, Jon Snow groaned and squinted at the chair as if recognizing an old foe.  Impossible.  Snow had never been here.  Never seen the shriveled shape in its web of biomechanical tubing.

          Then the light flashed again and another throne appeared.  Just as jagged, but made of swords.

          “Gods be good,” Snow muttered.

          “There are no gods here but me.” 

          As Palpatine spoke, the chamber tolled like a bell.  Other, paler figures flickered into view behind the throne.   Snow’s direwolf moved in front of his master, hackles risen, growling fit to wake the dead.   But the dead no longer needed waking. They were just fine, those cold wights with their glowing blue eyes.

          “It’s how it was ten years ago,” Snow shouted.  Anguish and anger mingled in his voice.

          “Of course it is,” Palpatine mocked.  “I will turn your world back to the time of my greatest triumph! Or…” Yellow eyes glittered within his cowl as he turned his intubated head towards Daenerys.  “Perhaps it was your triumph, Khaleesi. Even now, your rage and hatred lingers in the air.”

          “That is past.” Daenerys said.  She was a silver-gray flicker on Kylo’s right.  “We are united against you now.  Whatever plan you think you have, our coming together will be your doom.”

          As she spoke, Rey ignited her lightsaber—the gold of it outshining both that of Leia’s and Kylo’s.  For an instant, the chanting of the Sith faltered—

          But Palpatine laughed to drown the world.

          “Oh, but that is my plan!” he crooned.  “How else could I get you warring heroes together?  You are so filled with fear and hatred of each other.  Your pitiful evils needed a greater threat.”

          “We don’t hate each other.”  Rey stepped up beside Daenerys—and Kylo’s heart clenched in momentary panic.  He’d been so hypnotized by Palpatine that he hadn’t seen her move away.  Quickly, he stalked up behind her.  Heroes, droids, and Ghost stood in a knot before the throne.

          “I wouldn’t be so sure, Jedi,” Palpatine said.  “You underestimate young Solo’ lust for power.  Have you forgotten what he did to his own father?”

          Rey flinched, but her voice was calm.  “Everyone you’ve messed with has killed someone they love.”

          “Truuuuuuuuue,” Palpatine gloated.  “Truuuuuuue.  And it’s high time he did so again, don’t you think?  Ren!”  The yellow eyes found their way to Kylo.  “You’ve had what you want from this girl.  Now let the past die.”

          Kylo and Rey exchanged a look. 

          No, Kylo thought.  Oh no, no, no…

          “Oh but yesss, my young apprentice!” Kylo caught the flash of Palpatine’s teeth.  Confined as he was by wires and tubes, the Emperor had the appearance of a menacing vulture, his shadow swelling like wings behind him as his old cracked voice battered Kylo’s mind.

          What can she give you but her body? the voice mewled.  I offer you entire UNIVERSES!

          “Ben!”  Golden light gleamed like stars in Rey’s eyes. The voice pawed him.  That horrible, familiar voice…

          I’VE BEEN EVERY VOICE IN YOUR HEAD, BOY!  I AM STILL WITHIN YOU!  I KNOW WHO YOU ARE!

          “Ben!” Rey shouted as if to bring him back. But, oh Force, this was the moment and there was no return, none…

          “BEN!” Pleading tinged her voice as he took her arm and drew her towards him. 

          For an instant it was just the two of them, the golden light warring against the red.  He felt his arm come up in another world, heard the crackle of the saber like a distant fire.

          Ben.

          Her fingers sunk into his arm.

          He switched his saber off, then on.

          As the blade came out her back, she dropped her own saber, the golden light snapping off, her mouth a round, dark “O.”

          There was a rumble.  Palpatine was laughing.  Off and on went the saber.

          Rey fell to the floor.

          As Kylo stared down at her crumpled form, at the hole in her chest, the smoke curling upward, he thought he heard the furious howling of wolves before the world went red and red and red.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

“We gotta take out their shields now!” Poe Dameron crackled over the comm.  Tyrion shook himself to stave of his fright. The sky beyond the window of the command center was a sea of enemy ships.

          “Oh balls,” Rose said.

          Tyrion blinked at her—but his next wry witticism was cut off as she pressed a button and engaged the comm.

          “Red Leader, transmitting coordinates now.  Prepare to launch.  Engage evasive maneuvers.”

          On another console, closer to the windows, Tyrion saw Jana and her group of ex- Order members furiously punching buttons as they argued.  In a moment, Jana sprinted over—an attractive dark-skinned girl wearing men’s trousers and a billowing golden cloak.  Tyrion experienced a moment’s disorientation as the cloak brought back memories of a certain bannerless brother. 

          “Lieutenant,” Jana said, “we can only triangulate a position.  The generator is somewhere at these coordinates.”  She rattled off a series of numbers.  Rose just nodded and relayed the message to Poe.

          The wall of planet killers waited, floating serenely in the sky.

          Tyrion scowled.  “Why aren’t they firing on us?”

          Rose and Jana looked at him—then back to the fleet.

          “That is weird,” Rose muttered.  “Poe,” she ordered, “hold a minute…”

          “We can’t hold!” Poe returned.  “It’s only a minute before those psychos explode us!”

          Tyrion squinted at the threatening ships.  Just sitting there.  Waiting.  The Kings of Winter concealed within.  That’s what had happened on Lothal, what Tyrion and his companions had been sure would happen here.  Daenerys said that Palpatine’s wight-army would swarm the ground, preventing all but the heroes from entering the Sith temple.  The Kings of Winter would lurk in the destroyers, and it would be up to the dragons to sense them—and end them.

          Beyond the window, flying against the storm, a large green dragon swooped and soared.  Tyrion watched as it veered away from the enemy ships and vanished in a headlong dive towards the ground.

          At that same moment, the planet killers opened fire.  The Steadfast juddered as crackling blue light filled the command deck.

          “Ion cannons.” Jana’s teeth were clenched.  A fine sweat beaded her forehead.

          “There go our shields.”  Rose said.  “But why?  They can just vaporize us with their lasers.”

          Jana nodded.  “We should be dead already.”

          Tyrion drew a sudden breath. “They don’t want us dead!” he exclaimed.  “Not in the traditional way.” He scrabbled at the console and nearly pissed himself in relief as the comm engaged.  “Dameron!” he hollered.  “What are the dragons doing?”

          “They want out,” Dameron answered.  “Like the rest of us.” 

          “Are they trying to go down, or out to the ships?” Tyrion demanded. 

          “Down!” Dameron said.  “What the hell’s going on?”

          “We are deceived.”

          Everyone turned to see the red priestess, Kinvara step out of the transport lift.  “Our enemy is not where we thought,” she said.  “We must not send the dragons towards those ships.”  Behind her a spindly shadow nodded: Hataska Ren, as always, in her wake.

          “But aren’t our targets in those ships?” Rose said.  “What we saw on Lothal--”

          “Is what Palpatine wanted us to see.”  The unease that had plagued Tyrion all morning finally crested.  “He sent White Walkers in the planet killers before, but he knew we’d figure it out.  He wants us to waste our time trying to find them so he can pick us off and add us to his army.”

          Rose’s eyes widened.  “He’s not blowing us up because he needs us to be whole.”

          “Bits and pieces can’t defend their king,” Tyrion nodded.  “Or be ruled by him, once he has what he wants.”

          “So then, where are the master-wights?” Rose said. 

          “Where they can do the most harm,” said Hataska Ren—not without admiration. 

          “With Daenerys and the others,” Tyrion said.  “In the temple.” As he spoke, another explosion scored the Steadfast’s bough.

          “Uh, guys?” Dameron’s voice intruded.  “What are we doing?  It’s not getting any friendlier down here!”

          Rose looked between Tyrion and the others, then reached for the comm again.

          “No, wait!” Tyrion said.  “What are we doing?”

          “We have to abandon ship,” Rose said.  “Send the smaller craft out to disable the shields.  If we can’t get the wights we can at least get the ships: they’re still remote piloted.  We bomb them until we hit whichever one is making the decisions.”

          “The heroes, though,” Tyrion said.  “We have to help them.”  The deck vibrated under his feet.

          “I’m open to suggestions,” Rose said.  “But taking out those shields will take every ship we have!”

          The idea came to Tyrion fast and glorious. “Who said anything about ships?”  

          Rose, about to bark orders to Dameron, gave Tyrion a look of divine understanding.

          The Force! Tyrion thought.  He could have cackled.  It was growing around them all the time. 

          “Oh wizard!” Rose whispered.  “You’re out of your mind!’  But a gleeful fire lit her eyes.  “Red Leader!” she told the comm.  “Launch the attack, but hold the dragons in reserve.  And tell Finn he’s got to stay with us!  We’re going to need a Jedi!”

          Dameron took a second to respond.  From what Tyrion knew of him, he was probably sitting in his bizarrely named “cockpit” wondering why Rose had gone insane. 

          But the Force was swelling all around them, now, and Tyrion could feel Rose concentrating so hard…

          Not knowing what he was doing, Tyrion reached out with his mind—and found a host of thoughts and images waiting for him: ships swooping through laser fire, glowing blades, plunging wings...

          As he reeled, everyone around him gasped: Kinvara and Hataska, Jana and Rose.  The visions and thoughts coalesced as one.

          Tyrion knew the message had been received.

          The comm sputtered on again. 

          “Roger, General,” Dameron said. “I got it.”

          Rose blushed as Dameron used Organa’s title.  As Dameron switched over to address his squadrons, the Steadfast rocked with another blast of laser fire.

          “Gonna crash us in no time,” Rose muttered.  “All right.  We all clear on what we’re doing?”  Every face on the deck turned towards her—nearly feral with the need to act.  Tyrion felt his heart swell—then realized it wasn’t him.

          “Ohhhhhhhhhhh….” Kinvara breathed beside him as the sky abruptly flowered into red. 

          Turbulence struck the Steadfast like a fist.

          …the dark star rises… someone said.  Bran.  King Bran. The words poured in to Tyrion’s head.

          You must find the Lord of Ren before the dark star rises.  Before the Three Eyed Raven bows before the storm…

          The command deck flamed with ruby light.  Even Kinvara cringed before it.

          Bran was wrong, Tyrion thought.  Red, not dark.  A red star, bright as wildfire...

          “The hinges of the world roll back,” Kinvara exalted. “The gateway.  The gate is opening…!”

          Tyrion, struggling to keep his balance, brushed Rose’s hand as she clung to the console.

          “Well let’s go kriffing close it, then!” she shouted.”  “Everyone!  It’s time to fly!”

Chapter Text

Daenerys

The girl Rey slid to the floor and Ser Kylo straightened, turning his blasted face towards the Emperor.  A long strand of white breath trailed from his lips as the air in the throne room turned colder.  The ghostly shapes gathered behind the  throne flickered in and out with the lightnings.  The Walkers were solidifying. As they resolved into the terrible beings she remembered, Daenerys heard wolf-call rise to challenge them.

          Beside her, Jon looked as horrified as Kylo.  His lashes glittered with frozen tears.

          He said nothing.  It was Ghost who acted: snarling and bristling like an animal half his age.  As he prowled forward, arched sideways as if to shield Jon and Dany with his slat-ribbed form, the Sith folk chanted and the Emperor laughed and the chamber echoed with the baying of wolves.

          “Too late,” Palpatine crooned.  “Too late.  Your little friends are of no use.  And neither are you.” His grin widened as he raised a hand toward Ser Kylo, deadly blue lightning skipping across his fingertips.

          Kylo, arms limp, expression lost in some unknowable distance, gave the gesture an apathetic look. 

          “As I fell,” Palpatine whispered, “so falls the last of the Skywalkers.”

          The lightning solidified, punching forward.

          Kylo Ren didn’t scream as the blazing fist caught him in the chest.  It happened so fast, it seemed he simply winked out of existence—though a meaty thump suggested he’d hit the wall of the arena.

          Daenerys couldn’t spare the time to look as Kylo’s lightsaber came rolling towards her across the floor.

          It felt as if the whole world rushed inwards: all sounds and light and feelings focused on the blade.  For an instant, Dany heard Exegol grumbling to itself in a language of stone and ship and magic.  Everything.  Everything had led her here.

          She held universes in her hand.

          Ser Kylo’s blade had gone out when he dropped it.  The hilt gleamed dully: inert; without life.

          Daenerys regarded it for a small eternity.

          Then she called the blade to her hand.

          As she ignited it, she felt a cool draft lift her hair as, somewhere behind her, a doorway opened.  Great shaggy shapes rushed into the chamber, their snarls underlying the slow chanting of the Sith.  Jon looked at her, then squared his shoulders, wolflike himself as he ignited his own blade.  The blue light reflected in the eyes of the Walkers as they began to move towards him with slow, deliberate steps.

          “And now,” the Emperor cackled, “to usher in the new reality!”

          Daenerys felt something tug at her as Palpatine lifted his rotting hand.  He would have called her as she’d called Ser Kylo’s blade, but her own grasp of the Force kept her standing.  When she stepped towards him, it was of her own volition.  Scenes of fire and ruined kingdoms swirled in her head.

          “She will raise the blade!” Palpatine croaked.

          “SHE WILL RAISE THE BLADE!”’ the Sith Eternal cried.

          On her left, Jon moved ahead of her, saber raised to slash apart the first of the Walkers.  On her right was a stream of snaring Loth-wolves, Ghost loping alongside their enormous leader.  The light of Kylo’s blade caught their snow-white fur and turned it a disturbing red.

          I’ve raised the blade, she realized.  She’d done it without thought and with a perfect opening stance.  Vaapad, she thought. She knew the name of the form the way she knew star craft swarmed in Exegol’s sky.

          “She will approach the throne!” Palpatine cried.

          “SHE WILL APPROACH THE THRONE!” this Sith chanted.

          Dany moved forward as in a dream, up the steps of the cold, black dais.  Kylo Ren’s blade lit her way, casting everything in crimson and black.

          Targaryen colors, she thought, dimly.  The dark side currents surrounding the Emperor made it hard to concentrate.  This isn’t a dream, she reminded herself.  This man once controlled me.  He got me killed.

          As she thought it, a physical pain gripped her breast: the old wound hurting where Jon had stabbed her.  Shame and sadness and anger coursed through her: love dying, cities burning in her mind…

          Burn them all, the shadows whispered.  They hurt you. Betrayed you.  Burn them all!

          Aloud, Palpatine said to her:

          “With the force of her hatred, she will make the SACRIFICE!”

          “WITH THE FORCE OF HER HATRED…”

          Dany ignored the Sith.  Her hand sweat as she raised the blade. It felt so light as she drew back for the strike—as if she’d been born to wield it.

          Do it! The shadows commanded her. Mother of Dragons.  Empress.  Queen!

          With a snarl of righteousness Daenerys drew back, then drove the blade into Palpatine’s chest.

          The Sith temple tolled like a terrible bell.

          Then the Emperor started to laugh.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The concussive sound of The Steadfast leaping back into hyperspace sounded far above him as Tyrion Lannister dove.  There really was nothing better than riding a dragon—though his current exhilaration was somewhat tempered by the explosions.  Things were blowing up everywhere: above, behind, below, sideways.  Small ships and star destroyers; pilots, dragonriders, and hordes of icy demons.  Exactly what the point of the undead horde was, Tyrion couldn’t begin to guess.  Now that everyone knew where the Kings of Winter were, no one had any intention of engaging in ground combat.  While Poe Dameron led his squadrons towards the enemy shields, zipping and rolling between beams of laser fire, Rose Tico and Jedi Master Finn led the dragon charge, strafing countless wights and drawing fire that only served to blow up more.

          Rose was laughing hysterically as she clung to Finn’s waist on the back of a golden dragon.  Though the Jedi lad had never ridden a dragon before, he’d taken to the task as if born to it.  This particular dragon had, according to Jana, come in with a band of defectors from Naboo—and had all but sought Finn out in the hangar bay as their little band frantically manufactured their escape.  Tyrion thought the beast looked familiar.  Was it the one Ser Kylo had bonded?  If so, it had grown.

          “WOOOHOOOHOOO!” Finn cried as the golden beast skimmed the surface of Exegol.  Too small to be targeted by the planet killers, the dragons were large enough to cut a raging swath through the wights. And with Kinvara and her fire-priests riding most of them, they were doubly armed with firepower.

          Of course, Tyrion had a nagging suspicion that the red star had something to do with this.  He’d long since stopped looking over his shoulder to make sure Kinavara was keeping up.  Her twinkling red eyes were always behind him, and the mad red eyes of her people followed.  Much better to look ahead at the one deadly star than to dwell on the fact that its numerous cousins swarmed behind you.  As joyous as it was to soar with Tysha, Tyrion felt uncomfortably like a torchbearer about to ignite a cache of wildfire.

          More explosions sounded overhead.  Dragons shrieked as chunks of debris rained down. A piece of metal as big as a palace screamed towards Tyrion—and Tysha raced effortlessly up and over its falling surface.

          “I THINK POE GOT THE SHIELDS!” Finn cried as he and Rose came up alongside Tyrion.

          “GO! GO! GO!” Rose told him.  She pointed towards the massive black heptagon of the Sith temple. What had seemed a small cube from atmosphere was now a slab of darkness twice the size of King’s Landing.  A thin drone, as of voices, drifted from it, just discernable over wind and dragon scream.

          Above it, the red star blazed: not yet within the sphere of the planet.  Tyrion could sense it drawing nearer.  Or maybe opening like doors…      

          …raise the blade… someone whispered.

          Tysha growled deep in her throat.  A jolt of lightning seemed to go through the company.  They’d all heard that whispery voice.  They could guess what it meant.

          Daenerys, Tyrion thought at the same time Finn called out: “REY!”  A slash of blue light signaled the Jedi had ignited his saber.  At the same time, a coal seemed to burn Tyrion’s breast.

          “Ow!” Even as he clutched at the pain, dark voices sounded in his head.

          …raise the blade!

          He scrabbled at his shirt.  It was the knife.  Jon’s knife…

          …force of her hatred… the temple sighed.

          Tysha shrieked.  Without warning, she shot forward, diving towards the temple, heedless of Tyrion’s commands.   The huge, cold shadow of the temple enveloped him—and a huge warm shadow eclipsed him from behind.

          Not the priests, Tyrion knew.  Tysha had outpaced them.  So what then? Tyrion wondered.  Then, Tysha shrieked again: greeting an updraft of heat.

          An instant later, Tysha was nearly bowled over as her great, black brother hurtled by above.  Drogon had suffered no rider to mount him and Tyrion, sworn to protect him, had thought he’d gone with the Steadfast.  The beast had still been lurking in the launch bay while Rose commanded Artoo and Threepio to make their jump.  He should have been safe with General Organa—another important reason they’d jumped away.

          Instead, Drogon fled screaming towards the temple.

          Tyrion, who’d seen Drogon in battle before, knew what the dragon was about to do.  He cringed.  King’s Landing was one thing.  The Sith temple was vaster and crackling with dark magic.  As Drogon sailed on, he seemed to shrink, his first eruption of fire a mere flicker, like a snake’s tongue…

          Then a dozen other dragons shot by overhead and Tasha surged joyfully to join them.  Rose and Finn shrieked alongside Tyrion.  No amount of tugging could stop their steed.  Tyrion sensed Hataska dart by, laughing a bubbly, viscous laugh.  As far as the Knight of Ren was concerned, this was the conflagration he’d been waiting for.  Indeed, a moment later, Tyrion’s face began to burn as he came within range of the exploding temple.   

          Mother have mercy, we’re breaking through! Tyrion gripped Tysha for all he was worth.  The temple spoke in guttural protestations as dragon fire cut a crumbling path to its heart.

          Heart! Tyrion realized. He perked up, then wished he hadn’t.  The air before him was smoke and wings and fire, and the only thing keeping him from fainting was Daenerys.

          “Remember the prophecy,” she had told them, standing above Lothal in the Steadfast’s hangar bay.  “Palpatine will try to pull our worlds together using the greatest evil from each.  But we are the greatest good from each world, and we know how our heroes have triumphed before.  We win by using that same magic.  By balancing the Force and fulfilling the prophecy of Azor Ahai.”  Her newly blue eyes had gone to Jon, not without sympathy for his pain.  Azor Ahai had killed his wife to save the world, his sword only magical once it had stabbed his beloved Nissa Nissa.

          “No, wait,” Jon had said.  “Who has to die?”

          And before Daenerys Targaryen could answer, Rey had said: “Me.”

          Now, whirling through darkness and flame, Tyrion clutched at the dagger beside his heart.  Everyone had agreed it was Kylo’s sword the Emperor wanted, for only the Red Blade of Heroes could kill him.  But it had to be activated first. Whether to be used by Palpatine or his destroyer.  No matter who wielded the blade, it wasn’t magic until it had pierced a beloved heart.

          “My father, though,” Ser Kylo had argued.  “I loved him and killed him with this sword.  Doesn’t that satisfy the conditions?  Do I really…?” He’d looked at Rey, who nodded.

          Oh, but we forgot a few details, Tyrion thought, racing forward through his memories of their counsel.   It’s the balance of two worlds we need.  Two worlds that Palpatine wanted to overlap.  From what Ser Kylo had explained of the Night King, the Emperor and the King of Winter were both separate and the same. 

          If there were two entities to be defeated, it made sense that they’d each need a separate sword.

          Or blade, Tyrion thought.  No one ever said ‘sword!’  Prophecy was such a poxy whore.

          A renewed crash and scream of dragons sounded ahead and Tysha pulled up, her scarlet wings flapping.  The dragons had come to a more persistent barrier and were hovering, training all their fire at the base of a colossal wall.  Colored flames blinded Tyrion.   He turned his face away, hands fumbling Jon’s dagger from his shirt.  The blade was small and clean, not a drop of red on it.  But, like Kylo’s blade, it had pierced a beloved heart.

          “Lightsabers!” Rose shouted, somewhere in the madness.  “All of you!  Now!  We’re breaking through!”

          Above the howl of flames came a pleasing sizzle as certain objects liberated from a certain mad General leapt to life.  (With the help of some speedy Order-folk, Rose had just managed to pillage Hux’s collection.)  There were probably a few red blades in the mix, but, just then, Tyrion cared only for the blade in his hand.

         Seven hells, he prayed, as walls crumbled, as waves of heat singed his face, and a dark chanting raked his mind.  Please, for Daenerys.  Please, for Jon.  For all of us… don’t let me be too late…!

Chapter Text

Daenerys

She stared at her hand, white around the dark hilt, and on to where crimson pierced the Emperor’s breast.  The mad, dead thing was laughing at her.  A spidery hand, missing fingers, clamped down on her own.

          The chill that ran through Daenerys Targaryen had nothing to do with that dry, awful touch.

          The Sith were chanting, chanting, chanting.  The walls flashed and the throne turned from one chair to another.  When next the Iron Throne appeared, the red star was closer: a burning sun in the heart of the dark.

          The Emperor’s hand tightened.  A power held her. A seeping magic she knew of old.

          The snarling of wolves, the icy shred of blade on blade, became a clash and clatter extending from the past.  She sensed Jon, to one side, relentlessly felling Walkers, and shouting for her as he’d done the day King’s Landing burned. 

          It’s happening again, Daenerys thought.  Despair and magic settled on her like a too-heavy cloak.

          Yet when she looked at the Emperor’s face, rage flickered as hot as any star.

          Goooood! the foul thing crooned in her mind.  Give in to your hatred.  Embrace your destiny!  You are a Sith, Daenerys Targaryen!  Together we will set the Galaxy ablaze!  A terrible good humor infused the words.  A mocking laughter floated through the chamber.  It mingled with the incessant chanting of the Sith as their incantation began to steal her soul.

          We had the red blade, Daenerys thought.  How can we lose when Rey gave her life…?  The Daughter had said Rey’s sacrifice must happen, that the Prophecy of Azor Ahai must be fulfilled.  Had she lied?  Had everything been a lie? Was this truth?  This shrunken monster wheedling at her mind?

          “Wrong…blade…!” the Emperor croaked, his body beginning to collapse upon itself.  A dark fog spread through Daenerys’s mind.  She understood that she was intended as a vessel: a new body to contain Palpatine’s ancient spirit.  The idea revolted her, but when she tried to struggle, a memory flashed, beating her down.  A memory of Jon’s face, so sorrowful, as a breathless pain divided her heart.  It had taken her a second to understand, but by then she was dead, already falling….

          She was falling now.  Into darkness.  Wrong blade.  Another trick.  She ought to have known.  The prophecy had already been fulfilled: the Red Blade of Heroes had been forged in her own breast. 

          “Dany!” Jon screamed.

          The clash of blades.

          The world ending in ice and wolves.

          Their voices—all voices—became a crazed roar--

          Then, on her left, the temple disintegrated.

          The dark presence retreated from her mind as the Sith in their shadowy robes stopped chanting.  Palpatine’s hand jerked away from her and Kylo’s blade switched off, bouncing down beside her feet.  Some instinct made her bend and grab it as a searing blast of heat and a reptilian shriek filled the chamber.

Drogon? she thought. Dust and heat billowed towards her, flaming rubble streaking past with deadly velocity.

          A dark, serpentine head snaked into the chamber, seizing the nearest wights in its dark, crushing jaws.  A crack and a powdery spray of ice and Jon was down a dozen opponents.  There were more, several wintery kings among them, and one, very still, who hung back by the throne…

          Another dragon, red as rubies, squeezed past Drogon into the room. A familiar shape clung dazedly to its back.  Dany had only a moment to catch Tyrion babbling before a swarm of other dragons poured past him.  Red, silken gowns and bare, tattooed flesh flashed as their riders called down incantations.  R’hollor’s priests had come on wings, bringing dark magic and fiery death.

          Thing happened very fast.

          Before her, Palpatine hissed like a cat, shrinking back against the chair.

          Behind, fire lit the chamber.  Sith, Walkers, wolves, and warriors collided in fury.  The remnants of Dany’s army, those who’d first taken Vader’s Keep, leapt from dragon back, screaming war cries like a Dothraki khalasar.  Slashes of light proclaimed the presence of lightsabers in the hands of warriors and priests alike.  The Jedi Finn and the girl, Rose Tico swept the ceiling on dragon back, their golden beast breathing white-hot fire on the Sith.  Heat and lightning, the smell of magic and burning flesh—all mingled with the terrible sounds of battle.

          In the midst of it all, the Force tugged at Dany, directing her attention to two old friends.

          Tyrion Lannister, once Hand of the Queen, had tumbled from his dragon and was creeping along the ground.  Jon, pressed on all sides, was trying to get to him, but wights and chaos barred his way.  While his dragon stood over him, snapping and spewing flame, the dwarf waved something in one hand.  A flash of metal caught the light, as if he held a lighted candle….

          “Nooo!” Palpatine mewled.

          Dany’s heart leapt.  Like her, the Emperor was transfixed.  Something about the flash in Tyion’s hand…

          Oh, Daenerys thought. The battle dropped away. 

          Slowly, Palpatine turned towards her.

          His ancient, weathered face was afraid.

          The Force still filled her, vast and all encompassing, the essence of all that was or would be.  She directed it towards Jon and Tyrion, searching for something she could not name.

          Her mind encountered a rolling black ball, its impulses snapping as fierce as any dragon.  It had zipped over to defend Tyrion, its mechanical arm, equipped with a spinning blade.  It was so small and insignificant, its foes were wounded long before they noticed it was there.

          Three-nine, Daenerys called—and the droid paused.  Its head spun towards Tyrion in understanding.

          “NOOO!” Palpatine snarled.  The awful hand reached again, even as something stirred behind the throne.  Steam rose in tendrils from the Night King’s shoulders as he emerged to stand at Palpatine’s right arm.

          Daenerys ignited Kylo’s blade. 

          To her amazement the Night King hesitated.

          Mother have mercy, Daenerys thought.  A madness of delight rose within her.  Prophecy.  Gods!  Prophecy was a trull! 

          “Put down the sword, you wretched girl!” Palpatine croaked.

          “Why?” Daenerys asked.  “It can’t hurt you.  It’s the wrong blade…but not for him.”

          Palpatine’s garbled silence as she nodded at the Night King was all the answer she needed.  The Emperor had almost succeeded in his plan—merging two realities and killing off their protectors—but a plan was not a prophecy.  He had not created the powers that had drawn Daenerys and the others to Exegol.  Those (as Bran the Broken might have told you) were powers beyond what any one entity to control.  And they had spoken of two realities.  Two sets of heroes.

          Two blades.

          One from each reality, Daenerys thought, as the Night King drew his own blade of glittering ice.  Long ago, he’d killed Viserion in an instant.  She didn’t doubt he could do the same to her.

          “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Palpatine raged as the slow monster stood beside him, facing Dany like a stone.

          “Waiting,” Dany whispered.

          Below her came the high-pitched warble of a droid.

          She reached out.  She didn’t need to look.  The red star was in the sky and the Force was with her.  She sensed, for just an instant, every presence in the room, from Jon and the dragons, to the tiny metal droids.  Two of them had come to her, one bearing a gift from Tyrion.

          GO! She thought.  She tossed Kylo’s blade to where BB-8’s mechanical claw awaited.  A streak of red reflected on the Night King’s face as he followed the passage of the blade.  An instant later, Jon’s dagger flew into Dany’s hand, BB-39 chirping at the successful delivery. 

          “No!” shrieked Palpatine.

          Yes, thought Daenerys.

          She jammed the dagger into his breast.

          She thought his death might take a moment, but it didn’t.  She felt the blade nick the back of the tortured throne, heard a ping like a single note of music, and then the foul face in its dark robe crumpled, turning to dust—then to nothing at all.

          The Night King, as if remembering an urgent appointment, turned with a jerk and plunged into the crowd.  With Palpatine no longer in charge, the creature had reverted to its original nature. 

          Jon, Dany thought.  It would go to him now.  But BB-8 was ahead of it—whirling Kylo’s saber

          The Red Blade of Heroes, Daenerys thought in wonder.  She gripped its counterpart, and turned to see what enemies might come.  The ranks of the Sith and the wights were shrinking, but this wasn’t over yet.

          The Dyad’s work had begun.

Chapter Text

Rey

Rey waited in the gray place where only Exegol was real.  She watched walls crumble and Sith chant, but the red star that had marked her death—and all flashes of the Iron Throne—had vanished. 

          The star was Westeros, she knew.  That wasn’t the whole truth, but close enough.  What she’d found in the Jedi texts—the illustration of the light and dark planets—turned out to be the alignment of gateways.  Realities bleeding into each other.  Palpatine had invited Westeros into the galaxy, and once the two connected, he would shut the door.

          It made more sense when you were dead. 

          She waited.  Somehow, she had her lightsaber.  She felt her hands gripping the hilt, but also knew that she had dropped it.  Her body lay a little ways below her, a circle of Loth-wolves protecting it.  Two of the wolves had died fighting wights and two more had taken their place.  When the dragons came it didn’t take Finn long to find her.  Soon he and Rose set down beside her on their great, golden beast…

          Where was Ben?

          Over there, a woman said.

          Leia Organa stood at Rey’s shoulder.  The general held a lightsaber too.  Her own.  Gold and silver with a shimmering blue blade.  She nodded behind her at a pile of rubble where part of the Sith coliseum had collapsed.

          It took Rey a moment to understand.  If Leia were here…

          I died, Leia smiled.

          No! Rey pleaded.  Oh no.  Master…!

          Leia shrugged.  I was old.

          But that means the Emperor won!

          No, Leia said.  It just means he killed me. 

          He didn’t win, another voice chided. 

          Luke Skywalker appeared beside his sister.  Both the twins wore softly glowing robes.  Force ghosts.  Which meant Rey must be one too.

          Stars!  Master Luke! Rey exclaimed.

          The Daughter told Daenerys I had to die, she thought.  Die and wait.  For Palpatine. 

          I thought I had to do this alone, she continued.

          No, no, Luke smiled.  Not alone.

          Alone, never have you been, said a voice, and then, Rey saw them.  The Jedi. 

          She gasped as Force ghosts spread all around her, obscuring the fight that raged below.  Tall and short, male and female, alien and human, young and old.  There were hundreds.  Thousands of Jedi ghosts.  The souls of every Jedi who had died in the Light. She saw a white-bearded man and a little green alien, side-by-side, gazing fondly at Luke.  She saw a Twi’lek woman and a woman with looping braids, two female Miralans in trailing black robes.  There was a tall human warrior she somehow knew was blind, and a young man with a cocky smile and a scarred face.

         You were never alone, Rey.  Their voices reached her.

          We were with you.

          The Force is with you, always.

          Then, as her heart filled up with light, they all turned as one and she with them.

          The ghostly chamber had solidified into its own reality.  The only traces of battle were distant roars and explosions.  Rey could just make out a faint cheeping of droids and a vague, protesting No! as someone took damage. 

          Beside her, Leia and Luke pushed back their sleeves and held their sabers in the opening stance of Shii-Cho.  Rey heard the rustle of other sleeves rolling back—simple robes and the silken garments of Republic-era Jedi alike.  Inwardly she giggled.  Ghosts didn’t need sleeves!  But it was so human, such a reflection of the real world.

          Which is what this is, she knew.  The living Force had made this their battle arena. Whatever happened here affected the real world.  Anything that ended here, ended in reality. 

          So the Daughter had told Daenerys and so Daenerys had told Rey to wait.

          And now…

          She felt the moment it happened.  The moment the battle shifted and something came through. 

          A darkness bloomed before her in the half-circle before the throne, that stony, clawlike seat of the Sith.

          Lightsabers flared as the darkness took form: Emperor Palpatine coalescing before them, howling with supernatural rage.  No longer the rotting thing from Exegol, he had reverted to his mortal form: the shrunken old man he’d been, long ago, when Anakin Skywalker tossed him down a reactor shaft.  His dark robes produced a soft anti-light that, compared with the glowing Force ghosts, gave him the semblance of a black hole.

          Hideous lightnings sprang from his hands as the presence of the Jedi dawned on him.

         You meddling fools! he snarled.  His yellow eyes flickered like dying candles.

          Rey swept her golden lightsaber before her, deflecting the spokes of lighting before they could land.  As she did, she experienced a vague flash of the world below her.  Something about Jon Snow…and Ben’s blade.

          FOOLS! Palpatine howled.

          I dunno, Leia said.  I kinda thought you were foolish.  You couldn’t control one Empire when you were alive.  Then you died and tried for two.

          You’re dead! Palpatine snarled.  All of you!  All of my enemies are DEAD!  He laughed—but it was brittle.  He took a step back.

          I think the difference is, we don’t mind.  The words came from the scarred-faced young man.  He moved up beside Rey, his hand briefly resting on her shoulder.

          You…! Palpatine hissed.

          I don’t matter anymore, the young man said.  I beat you a long time ago.  Rey? You want to do the honors?

           Rey nodded.  Palpatine’s head whipped to her.  Derisive laughter dripped from his mouth.

          The Last Jedi, he mocked.  What can you do to me, girl? 

          Rey seized the Force. Just this.

          Palpatine’s hand came up as she charged him.  She slashed it aside, spun, then slashed from the opposite direction, opening him from shoulder to groin.  Where her ghost-saber touched, light flared in the darkness, burning gold eating up the edges of his robe.  Palpatine clutched his wound in shock as his severed wrist dripped gold like blood. 

          How…? he asked, but rage overcame him.  He reared upright, ignoring how his form began to crumble.

          FOOL! He shrieked again.  I AM ALL THE SITH!

          And I am all the Jedi, Rey replied.  She nodded and the Force ghosts swept around her, grim faced and merciless, sabers on fire.  As Rey struck with them she had another flash: Jon Snow raising Kylo’s blade.  A monster of ice towered over him, but the magic was fading, the Light was coming back.

          NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooooo…..!  Palpatine shrieked and then, at last, he shrieked no more.  The spirts of all he had tortured and killed, seduced and manipulated, hoped to rule, tore his own spirit into glittering shreds that faded away forever, consumed by the Force.

          Rey’s only thought as her vision went white, was that Ben couldn’t have been there with her.

Chapter Text

The Man Between Worlds

Kriffing fuck, his head hurt.  He coughed.  Grit crunched between his teeth. The floor, wet and cold beneath him, rumbled as if a herd of Banthas stampeded across it.

          What happened? he wondered.  There was something on his back.  A boulder.  A wall.  An entire star system.  When he tried to shake it, it settled deeper…

          And then he remembered.

          Rey!

          “REY!!”

          The cold left him.  And the pain.  His body: beaten, crushed, fried.  It didn’t matter.  He simply removed it from his mind, then he rose with the Force, throwing off chunks of glittering black stone.  They rocketed away into darkness, but there was light all around him: vast curtains of golden fire.

          He ducked to avoid a scaley tail as a dragon swept by overhead.  The Sith temple teemed with dragons, all terrorizing the last-standing cultists and blasting away at wights.  A glittering horde still milled about the chamber: icy demons in Imperial uniforms.  Their hair had grown long, their nails longer.  They raced toward him, rotting mouths agape.

          Kylo Ren (if that’s who he was), lifted his arms and called on the Force. A hail of jagged rubble and ice shot forward, smashing into the charging wights.  A man’s voice cackled madly above him, and he sensed Hataska Ren, aloft.  All the dragons had warriors or fire priests on them.

          And all those riders had lightsabers.

          Ahead, a familiar blue blade flickered.  Its radiance glanced off golden scales.  Finn and Rose Tico had found a familiar dragon.  The three of them, beast included, were protecting Rey.

          A lump of emotion filled Kylo’s throat.  Many emotions. Too many.  He raced forward, Force pushing wights and wolves, snatching a fallen saber from a dead fire-priest.  The corpse’s eyes turned blue as Kylo touched him.  The new wight tried to rise from the floor.

          “No!” Spinning, Kylo took its head off.  The head rolled, while the body continued to scrabble.  Kylo’s teeth chattered with cold.

          What the fuck? he thought.  There were dragons roasting the temple!  Anything in a black robe was on fire and the floor sloshed with melted snow.  How had his allies not won, yet?  Daenerys had promised they would win.

          As he thought this, he glimpsed her: pale by the throne, the temple roof exploded, the red star shining upon her.  In the heavens, Sith ships drifted in crimson, tiny X-wings and TIEs firing on them without fear. 

          The throne Daenerys faced was empty.  A few wires dangled near it like severed umbilical cords.

          Why was it getting colder, then?  Why did Kylo still hear the voices of the dead? 

          A shriek of welcome greeted him as he skidded up beside the golden dragon.  Finn, deftly killing dead men with Skywalker’s lightsaber, gave him an accidentally appreciative glance.  With a dizzy-making push, Kylo cleared the area, rubble, wights-- even a protesting BB unit--sweeping outwards. 

          The dead simply righted themselves and came prowling back for more.

          “What’s going on!” Kylo demanded, kneeling beside Rey’s body.  He’d expected her to be dead, but that didn’t make it easier.  Flashes of light danced in her sightless eyes.  Her skin had gone an awful grey.

          “Oh good, you’re back!” Rose exclaimed, earning a bewildered look from Finn.  “What do you mean, oh good?” Finn shouted.  “He killed Rey!”

          “He had to,” Rose said.  “So she could kill Palpatine!”

          “She’s dead, Rose!” Finn said, agonized.  He spun suddenly, leveling his blade at Kylo.  “You son of a --”

          “I’m going to heal her!” Kylo said.  Naturally, this had been their plan.  The only reason he’d agreed to go through with this madness.  As Finn blinked at him, Kylo placed a hand on Rey’s breast.  The golden dragon gave a cry and spread her wings in an act of protection.

          “You’re gonna what?” Finn said, a little breathless. 

          “You heard me,” Kylo said.  “Back off so I can—”

          “JON!”

          A sudden cry brought everyone’s attention to Daenerys.  A row of Loth-wolves guarded her, but she wasn’t the one under attack.  The horde of wights had swerved away from the throne and towards the crumbled wall of the temple. 

          Kylo heard a shout and saw a streak of crackling red.

          His saber.  Jon Snow was wielding his saber.

          Against what? he wondered, but then the golden dragon screamed and a memory of snow on Naboo engulfed him.  Apparently, the Night King was still at large.  Fire colored dragons wheeled overhead, shrieking.

          They can’t kill the Night King without killing Snow, Kylo thought.  And anyway, only a magic sword could kill that demon.  All the dragons could do was melt the oncoming wights, filling the combat area with misty veils of steam.

          Terrible fighting conditions, Kylo thought.  He sprang to Finn’s side, catching the Jedi’s arm.

          “Gah!  No!” Finn protested, but Kylo reached and felt their two minds crash together.  Revulsion and wonder flashed across Finn’s face…

          Then he and Kylo whirled as one.

          Rose Tico let out a whoop of excitement as every lifeform near Snow was yanked back by the Force.  The combined power of Finn and Kylo’s attack gripped wights and dragons alike—and held them.  The scritch of bootheels and Snow’s labored breathing were suddenly the only sounds in the room—and the dreadful crunch of the Night King’s sword, missing and burying itself in the floor…

          Come on, come on! Kylo thought. He could only vaguely see the two combatants.  He glanced at Finn and found the younger man nodding. 

          How about…? Finn suggested.

          “Yes,” Kylo said.

          Together, the two of them seized the Force and thrust the mass of wights apart like curtains.

          Now the battle became clear: Snow dodging and blocking the implacable ice king.  Fury and hatred simmered between them, a battle as primordial as any between Jedi and Sith.

          Come on, Kylo thought again.  Come on!  Rey needed Snow to win.  Whatever happened in this fight would mirror the ghost dimension where he had sent her.

          “I can’t hold this forever!” Finn said. 

          Kylo nodded, sweat running down his face.  The Force trembled like a livewire in his grasp.  With the battleground cleared, the Night King had more room to maneuver.  He kept Snow at a distance, fending off his furious attacks—and smirking as he swung his freakishly huge sword. 

          Come on, come on, come on, come on….!

          Somewhere behind his heart, Kylo felt a pull.

          Rey? 

          For just a moment he sensed her.  Or thought he did.  He wasn’t sure.  His body wanted to collapse in exhaustion.  His hold on the Force began to slip…

          Then Jon Snow shouted and clasped a hand to his cheek.

           Rose Tico gasped—a sound to chill the blood.

          Oh no!  Kylo thought.  Was Snow wounded?  He kept Kylo’s blade pointing outward to fend off his smirking opponent.  When he lowered his hand, Kylo waited for a gush of blood, but Snow’s cheek was whole, his hand empty…

          Or wait.  Not exactly empty.  A few drops of clear liquid fell to the ground.

          Just sweat, Kylo thought. 

          A shiver ran through the chamber.  The wights gave a rattling sigh.

          Snow raised his head, his face lit by the saber.  Red.  He was red.  His eyes like sparks.  When the Night King raised his blade, sparkling drops of water flew, and Kylo stopped breathing.

          The creature was melting.

          Jon Snow charged.

          The Night King raised his sword.  In his surprise he heaved it a fraction too high. 

          This was the opening Snow needed.

          He drove the red blade into the demon’s heart.

          With an icy blast, the Night King exploded.  Stinging ice shards whistled past Kylo’s face.  He and Finn fell backwards, losing Force and balance as the wights disintegrated in waves of chilling vapor.  Kylo found himself drenched and shivering on the floor, listening as the Loth-wolves howled in triumph.

          The tail end of a scream ran through his mind.  An echo from another world.

          --oooooooooooo! it said, fading forever.

          He flipped himself over and crawled to Rey.

###

She was gray and frozen.  Ice on her lashes.  Panting, hurting, he gathered her in his arms.  A perfect hole went through her breast and out her back and he shuddered in horror, covering each end of it with a hand.

          He breathed.  He sensed the golden dragon: its wings around them, full of life.

          He himself had little left to give.  He was tired.  So tired.  And sick in his soul.

          But I’ll do this, he thought, calmly.  This was right.  A fitting atonement for his crimes.

          The Daughter told Daenerys I could heal, he thought, but he didn’t think she’d mentioned the specific cost.  It didn’t matter.  He would pay it.  Rey deserved it.  The galaxy deserved it.

          And Kylo Ren deserved to die.

          He heard the dragon snuffling above him. Felt the blessed warmth radiating from its scales.  Then he drew all the Force he could hold and began to feed it into Rey.

          Please, he thought.  Please.  She was cold, so cold.  But she’d promised to come back after she’d won.  He breathed.  His mind searched for hers.  His spirit sought her spirit to call it home.

          Come back, he thought.  Be with me. 

          The smallest hint of warmth stirred beneath his fingers.

          Yes, come back.  Be with me.  Come back. Come back.  Come back.  Rey… 

          He held her closer, his cold cheek against her neck.

          Slowly, as his life ebbed, a vein flinched beneath her skin.

          The golden dragon curled around them, offering some of her own life to the task.  Kylo felt the trickle of it threading through him, bolstering his own fading and stuttering strength.  Once he’d healed the golden dragon.  Now it wished to give him something in return.

          Rey’s flesh began to warm.  He felt sinews knitting together.

          Come back.  Come back.  Please.  Please…

          Now her wound was against his heart, his arms embracing her, the Force pulsing, faint-but-steady.  Warm, golden scales and membranous wings held the two of them in womb of magic.

          He felt the tiny flutter against his chest.  Her heart beat.  He willed the Force to fuel it.  His own pulse slowed, ticking down like a timer, as her body stirred within his arms.

          “Ben?”

          Suddenly, she was looking at him.  The desert sun glowed in her eyes once more.  A wrinkle of concern dented her brow, but then he smiled, gasped his relief, and she grinned and kissed him.

          “Ben!” she said.  “Ben!  We did it!”

          “I know,” he said.

          Then he died.

Chapter Text

Leia

She had always been good at waiting, and this was one of her better stints.  She’d lived long and suffered much. The least the Force could do was let her see the end of the story.

          So, she waited as Rey and the Jedi ended Palpatine, as Jon Snow ended the Night King, as her son ended himself.  It was a fitting conclusion to his tale.  In his way, like his grandfather, he’d helped balance the Force.

          When he was suddenly there, bleary and confused, springing up from where, in the tangible world, he was supine on the floor, she thought:

          I wish this was the end.  I wish he could come with me and Han.

          But being one with the Force meant you knew all the stories—and Leia knew this was not the end.

          Mom? Ben asked.  He took a moment to get it.  Where they were.  What that meant.  He spun, looking around, one hand spread out, searching, as if he might encounter Rey kneeling beside him.  She was.  But Exegol was hidden. Only a soft pulse of rosy light indicated it was near.  No more throne or battleground or coliseum.  Just a whisper of voices, very far away. 

          Ben! Leia heard Rey say.  Ben!

          He heard it too and sagged miserably.

          So, this is death? His voice echoed in non-descript eternity. 

          The Living Force, Leia nodded.  A little bland if you ask me. It’s just an entryway, though.  The good stuff is further on.  She nodded sideways to where a pale glow emanated.  Warm and safe.  A promise of peace.

          But…how did you die? Ben asked.  You were alive just hours ago!

          I hear that’s how it happens, Leia said.

          Mom!

         I’ve been through some things, she said.  Fought wars, survived torture, got exploded out of an airlock… Palpatine’s meddling triggered my death.  He didn’t kill me directly, but my heart was tired. 

          She paused.  You couldn’t really cry here, but Ben’s eyes were welling up. 

          Don’t worry, she said, squeezing his arm.  Rey and the others took care of him.

          Others?

          We had quite a crowd.  Even Obi Wan was there.  It’s what happens when you die as one with Force.  You join the other Jedi to watch over those you love.

          Oh.  Ben sounded disappointed. 

          It’s your fate, Leia told him.  But there is another.

          A gleam of hope lit his eye and, just as quickly, flickered out.  He shook his head.

          No, he said.  I’ve done too much.  There’s no way to atone—and I…I don’t deserve…

          Maybe, Leia said.  Maybe not.  You won’t know until you give it a try.

          Try?  What—you mean go back?

          You and Rey are a dyad, Leia said.  On your own, you’re both exceptional Jedi.  Together, untied, you’re a power unmatched. You could rebalance Kylo Ren’s mistakes.  And mine.

          Yours?

          Your father and I left you alone too much, she said softly.  By the time I realized what was happening…I never wanted that, Ben.  She took his sad, scarred face in her hands and bent her head to his as she’d done when he was just a boy.  You needed a family, she said.  And I think you should have one.  It’s not too late.

          But I’m dead, he said.

          Not if I have anything to say about it.  I’ve done a whole helluva lot for the Force.  Enough to ask a final favor.

          The rosy light bloomed in the distance.  Rey’s voice drew nearer, pleading:

          Ben!

          Go, Leia said.  I’ll help you decide.  She leaned in and let the Force carry to him what she knew.

          He gasped—then through his arms around her. 

          Mom! he said.  Force!  Really?  When he drew back, his look of joy shone like sunlight.

          Leia blinked at something in her nonexistent eyes.  Go, she urged.  Be a real family.

          Ben! Rey was saying.  Ben, please come back!

          Leia took his hand and concentrated.  Light began to warm his ghostly form

          I love you, Mom, Ben said.

          I know, Leia nodded.  Now go and live.

          Rey’s cries of lamentation turned to breathless relief as Leia pushed him back into the world.

          There, she thought.  Finally.  A success.  He wouldn’t run off like his father had.  She’d raised him to love, if nothing else.  In Rey he had found perfect devotion and, having been raised alone, he wouldn’t do the same to their children.

          Leia Organa, rebel princess, General of the Resistance, mother and friend, breathed a sigh of relief as the light enfolded her.

          Now, she thought. To see about a certain scoundrel….

Chapter Text

Tyrion

Despite the bitter cold of the battlefield, the rubble Tyrion lay upon smoldered.  He shivered and burned simultaneously as he struggled to right himself atop the stones and bodies.  There were a few charred examples of the latter.  He, Jon, and the BB-units had slain the few Sith cultists who had managed to escape the wights (most of said cultists being on fire thanks to the intervention of Kinvara and her priests).  As he slid off a pile of half-melted slag, BB-39 came cuddling up to him like a cat, and Tysha landed nearby, flashing her wings, as the other dragons settled at various points of the temple. 

          Jon Snow, panting and drenched to the bone, stood by himself in the middle of a circle where every wight, wolf, cultist, droid, and dragon had been Force-yanked backwards during his duel.  Of the Night King nothing remained, nor of Palpatine on his malevolent throne.  For that matter, there was little remaining of the temple.  A gaping hole bared the structure to the sky.  A few dragons alighted on the ragged edges, observing the proceedings like ruby-colored vultures.

          The sky itself blazed crimson as the amorphous red “star” drifted into atmosphere.

          “When did the roof fall off?” Jon asked, his face bathed in ruddy light.  Now the fighting was over he seemed a simple Watchman again.  The terrifying warrior who’d wielded Ser Kylo’s blade had vanished.

          “I’m not sure,” Tyrion began—but cut off as Daenerys and Ghost flung themselves at Jon.  Daenerys, laughing and weeping at once, fused her body to Jon’s and sank with him to the floor.  Ghost circled, yipping and trying to lick their faces, as the lovers embraced tightly enough to break bones.

          Elsewhere, Tyrion heard more gasping and laughter as Rey flung herself on top of a sprawled Ser Kylo.  Finn and Rose looked down on them, leaning amiably against each other beside a dented BB-8. 

          “Ben, you’re alive!” Rey exclaimed.

          Who is ‘Ben?’ Tyrion wondered.

          Aloud, he said to his droid and dragon: “Well. I suppose this means we won.”

          Tysha flapped her wings and BB-39 chortled.

          “Oh, we’re not done just yet.”

          A chill shot up Tyrion’s spine as Hataska Ren came striding towards him.  Lady Kinvara drifted on his arm, looking strangely the worse-for-wear.  It occurred to Tyrion that, other than the sound of lovers rejoicing, the rest of the chamber had fallen silent.  Overhead, ship engines whined; in the hall, dragons and wolves grumbled...but the priests of Asshai stood motionless, not even bothering to tend their dead.

          “We must shut the gate,” Kinvara whispered.  “All who made the journey must return.”

          “To Westeros?” Tyrion asked.  How abrupt.  They’d just won the Long Night.  Again.  “Aren’t we allowed a little celebration?  Or a nap?  How about a nap?”

          “Many will sleep, soon.” Kinvara dangled from Hataka’s arm.  Though the spindly Knight remained helmeted, the tilt of his head indicated concern. 

          “Your Lord of Light demands much,” he burbled.

          “No more than does your Ren.”  Uneasy wonder stirred in Tyrion’s breast as the priestess’s pale hand cupped Hataska’s mask.  Without hesitation, the Knight returned her touch, pressing her knuckles to his invisible mouth in a portrait of chaste chivalry.

          Tyrion cleared his throat.  “How do we go home?”

          “Up, dwarf,” Hataska nodded at the sky.  Elsewhere, ruby light tinged the upturned faces of the surviving priests and warriors.  A single surviving Knight of Ren—identifiable by his bulky black armor and face plate—wandered among them with the furtiveness of someone trying to avoid treading on graves. 

          “Psst, Hataska,” the fellow whined.  “What do we do now, my lord?”

          “Lorl,” Hataska said.  “I thought you died.”

          “So did I, lord.  Several times.”

          “The Ren does what it wants.” Hataska clutched the swooning priestess, cradling her to his chest as the ruby light bore down.

          “What is it?” Daenerys appeared beside Tyrion, placing a tender hand on his shoulder.  Red light in her eyes again, but this time it was only a reflection of that star.

          “Kinvara says we have to go home now,” Tyrion said.  “Through that.”  He joined her squinting appraisal.   

          “Wizard!” Rose Tico had stolen up silently.

          Something began to happen to the priests.

          “Lord of Light!” cried a balding R’hollor-man.  He stretched his arms upward, his voice ringing.  Beside him, a crimson dragon shrieked before launching itself into the sky.  As the blast of its wings stirred Tyrion’s hair, the balding priest dissolved in a shower of embers.

          “Lord of Light!” cried a priestess.

          “Lord of Light!”

          “Lord of Light!”

          One but one the priests stirred, raising their arms.  One by one any dragon they’d bonded shot upward like a soul taken back to the Mother’s breast. The red light pulsed like a beating heart.  Sparks and ashes filled the air.

          “Oh dear.” Tyrion turned to Daenerys and Jon.  If they felt his anxiety, they didn’t show it.  Some deep, invisible current flowed between them.  Ghost sat patiently before Jon, while Drogon hovered over them all.  The black dragon whined with a strange, hopeful sound.  Like a lost child catching their first glimpse of home.

          “We have to close it,” Daenerys said.

          “Aye.” Jon held her hands in his.  Both glanced up at the same moment as Rey and Ser Kylo limped over to them.

          “You have to go?” Rey said.

          “Aye,” Jon repeated.  “It’s time.”

          “I…” A thousand responses seemed contained in Rey’s pause.  In the end, she smiled and extended a hand.  “May the Force be with you then, Jon Snow.”

          Jon shook with her.  “And with you, Rey.”

          Ser Kylo, arm around Rey’s shoulders, nodded to Snow, but addressed Daenerys.

          “You need a ship or…?” He seemed groggy.  But then, from what Tyrion had heard, he’d been dead.  All the heroes had been dead at one point.  It made Tyrion oddly thankful that he wasn’t one of them. 

          “Drogon will carry us,” Daenerys said. 

          More priests were disintegrating.

          “Lord of Light!”

          “Lord of Light!”

          Ser Kylo nodded, then recoiled as Kinvara convulsed in Hataska’s arms.

          “Mighty R’hollor!” the priestess cried.  “Valar Dohaeris!  Valar Morgulis!”  A hot flush spread over her skin as though a fire flared within her.

          “Bugger this,” Hataska Ren swore. Abruptly, his Force power ignited the air.

          “What the—” Ser Kylo dodged aside as the former Knight—Kinvara cradled to him like a doll—summoned a loitering dragon.  Red wings beat a fury, scattering sparks and fire, as the beast landed at Hataska’s side.

          “The Ren does what it wants!” Hataska cried.  He Force-leapt onto the dragon with Kinvara.

          The last Tyrion saw of either Knight or Priestess was a red comet streaking towards its own.

          “Idiot’s going to die,” Ser Kylo observed.  “He needs a special tank, for the love of the Force.”

          I’ll bet he’ll die happy, though, Tyrion thought.  Entwined in the arms of the woman he loves. Glumly, he looked about, finding everyone but himself encoupled.  Rose and Finn weren’t lovers anymore, but somewhere along their journey they’d become friends again.  Finn hovered protectively over the girl as more dragons flew and priests ignited.  The temple commenced an ominous shaking as the red star burned ever brighter and near.

          “Time to go,” Daenerys said.  “Jon?”

          Jon nodded.  “Ghost, to me.”

          “Drogon,” Daenerys called.  The black dragon hunkered down in preparation for her to mount.

          “Farewell, Tyrion,” Jon said. 

          “Farewell, Snow,” Tyrion clutched his friend’s large and calloused hand.  “I’m not going to see you again, am I?  Even if we survive the star.”

          Jon smiled.  That sweet and simple smile that had made men and women alike fall in love with him.  Then he bent and picked Ghost up.  It was the first time Tyrion had noticed how truly thin the direwolf was.

          “It will be all right, Tyrion,” Daenerys said.  “You’ll be a good king, and you’ll have the love you seek.” 

          “I’ll…what?” Tyrion barely noted her words—and their similarity to Bran’s—as she kissed top of his head.  His thoughts spun like a drunkard at a fair, filled with talk of kings and love.  His skin tingled and, desperately, he tried to fix the moment in place; to memorize his queen’s touch and the soft perfume of her hair. 

          “Goodbye,” Daenerys said.  She turned to Drogon, easily ascending his back.  Jon followed, Ghost nodding on his chest, and wrapped his arms around both wolf and queen.  Drogon had grown so big that the little trio could nestle snuggly among his spines.  They were able to hold on easily as the dragon gave a cry and flew.

          “Well then,” Tyrion muttered.  “That makes me the final holdout.”  Gods, what had Daenerys been talking about?  What love?  What kingship?  Surely she and Jon would now rule Westeros?

          Except, Ghost was dying and, in Westeros, Daenerys was dead.

          A deep sadness pierced Tyrion heart as he realized: he’d been had.

          “They’re gone for good, aren’t they?” He turned to Rey and Kylo, both wearing expressions that matched the tenor of his heart.  Ser Kylo’s dim glower had vanished so completely, he was barely recognizable as the same man. Somehow the new softness of his face made his next words even more terrible.

          “No one’s ever really gone, Tyrion.”  He and Rey both knelt and, like a child, Tyrion waddled over to hold their hands.  The Force was still in play around them and, though he did not receive a vision as he had at Webbish Bog, Tyrion did find the answer he sought.  An overwhelming sense of peace and of purpose fulfilled flowed into him.  Jon and Dany had fought.  Now they could rest. 

          He sighed.  “That makes two of us anyway.  Or four, counting Drogon and Ghost.”  Nevertheless, a tiny spark glowed in his chest, tempering his sadness, at least for the time.

          “I should go back,” he said.  The Force faded as he let go of Rey and Kylo’s hands. The pair rose, smiling kindly at him. 

          On the other side of the chamber, a door opened.

          Tyrion gasped.  A breeze came through to him.  The smell of the King’s Landing godswood in spring.  He realized the red light of the star was fading as the pale light of his own world grew.

          Daenerys said I’d be king, he thought bemusedly.  Well.  If that were the case, he knew some things that would make the job easier.  If King Bran were gone and Westeros realized it was kingless, there was no telling how many rebellions he’d have to put down.

          “Come along, Tysha,” he told his dragon.  “And you.” He nodded at BB-39.  A king with a dragon and a strange mechanical servant would, at the very least, be protected through the inevitable riots.  “Anyone else?” he asked.  Friendly faces regarded him.  And that one Knight of Ren—Lorl?  For a mad second, as Rose Tico stepped forward, Tyrion thought she might agree to come.  But she only wanted to hug and kiss him.

          “Thanks for breaking me out of prison,” she grinned.

          “Thanks for showing me spotchka,” Tyrion returned.  “If you ever find a door to Westeros on this side of the galaxy, come see me and we can share some Dornish wine.”

          “Deal,” Rose said. 

          Tyrion kissed her hand, straightened his shirt, and headed for the door.  His dragon, named after his most tragic love, snuffled along behind him, warming him with her presence. 

          If that damn prophecy means a dragon is the love I’ve always wanted… he thought—and then laughed in astonishment.  Why…that would be fine! He finally had Tysha.  He might have a kingdom.  If that was his fate, he’d seen (and deserved) worse.

          A new spring entered Tyrion Lannister’s stride as he made haste back to Westeros.  BB-39 rolled joyfully ahead of him, beeping at the prospect of mischief to come.

Chapter Text

Daenerys

Star Destroyers tumbled from the sky.  Dragons raced between them, streaking towards the light.  Jon had his arms around her and Ghost, his bearded cheek scratching pleasantly against her neck.  In the temple, the Daughter had told her all must sacrifice themselves, yet, if this meant death, she did not fear it.  She was warm, at last. Protected, at last.  There was no pain.  Her heart was full.

          I’m going home, she thought.  We’re all going home.  Jon, Drogon, and Ghost were going with her.  After so long in exile, here was her family.  She would have conquered worlds for this moment.

          I need not conquer anymore, she thought.  All I have to do is be.

          She laughed and twined her fingers in Jon’s hair.

          “I love you, Dany,” he said.

          “And I you.  Always.”

          The red light grew: warm and wild.  The dragons greeted it with joyful cries. Their wings flashed, golden-red and pink, a whirl of vibrant colors as they hurried on.

          Whatever happens now, Daenerys thought, we’ll all be together where we belong.

          She closed her eyes and snuggled against Jon’s chest as the star opened before them like a great, red door.

Chapter Text

Ben

There was more than one island on Ach-to.  Once the dust had settled, Ben Solo went there.  His island had evergreens and beaches, low mountains and meadows, and plenty of time to think.  His dragon (Rey jokingly called her Goldie until it stuck), had so many fish to eat she mostly left the porgs and sea-cows alone. 

          Through the autumn and winter of the Second Reconstruction, Ben built a cabin and waited for Rey.  Rey who would wipe BB-8’s memory drive, swear the survivors of the Battle of Exegol to secrecy, and convince the world Ben Solo was dead.  

          On bad days, he felt she might be right.  They kindled his mother’s ceremonial pyre, but her ghost and her legacy remained. He had plenty of time to consider how he’d betrayed it.  Plenty of time to let it haunt him through the long, wet months. 

          On other days, when the clouds blew off and Goldie soared skywards; or when a day building a greenhouse went alright, he thought that he could be so too.  His road of atonement would be endless, but he could walk it if Rey was there.

          He completed the cabin.  And the greenhouse.  They would have fresh meiloorun fruit when she came to stay.  He walked in the forest and sat attempting to meditate, but mostly just passing time, awaiting her return.

###

He was having a bad day when the Falcon arrived.  It was storming again.  Goldie had retreated to her cave.  The dragon’s lair was near enough to the cabin that, when the wind flagged, Ben could hear her high-pitched complaining.  Goldie didn’t like the island much, but he comforted her by describing Ach-to in the spring.  It would warm up.  It would get better.

          He’d told her this without quite believing it himself.

          Meanwhile, the empty cabin was oppressive, waiting for more occupants to make it a home.  It was tranquil and warm as the storm screamed around it—but there was such a thing as too tranquil. This morning the future felt too vast to be conquered and his sins too big to ever be excised.

          Which they are, he reminded himself, bursting from the cabin.  Maybe he could start chopping wood for the perimeter fence.  Maybe he could just chop wood.

          He dashed around the side of the house towards the toolshed--and heard the approach of familiar engines.

          The updraft as the Falcon settled in the clearing sent his hair streaming back from his face.  He hadn’t cut his hair since Exegol and the length of twine he’d used to secure it went dancing away.  Not that he cared.  His heart went to his throat as the Falcon landed and the ramp engaged.  A billow of steam, the whine of the hydraulics…and then, at last Rey.

          She’d brought company.

          “I hope you don’t mind about the droids!” she smiled as BB-8 rolled down the ramp beside her.  Behind her, Artoo and Threepio’s voices sounded, their forms blurred by steam and rain so that for a moment he thought—

          “As long as it’s not the traitor and the pilot,” he said as the gold and silver shapes solidified into the familiar figures of his childhood. 

          “The traitor and the pilot send their best wishes,” Rey said.  “Poe leant me Beebee-ate.  For the babies.”

          She beamed up at him, her face as lovely, if tired.  They hadn’t spoken much about their secret the few times they’d connected since Exegol.  Now that she was here, Ben understood why: a weight of dread he hadn’t known he’d been carrying sloughed off him.  Her pregnant belly—not so huge at six months that it couldn’t be hidden beneath long robes—nudged gently at his hip, reassuring him that this was real.  When your reality had so recently drifted into someone else’s, its confirmation felt like a miracle.

          “You’re here,” he breathed.

          “Oh yes,” she answered.  Her voice was muffled against his chest.

          “Of course we’re here, Master Ben!” Threepio interjected.  “And let me say how honored Artoo and I are to be able to serve you!  I am so looking forward to using my nurse-droid protocol patch which will allow me to access three billion forms of infant-nurture!”

          “Threepio,” Rey said gently, “can you give us a moment?  Maybe you and Artoo can take my things into the cabin?”

          The protocol droid paused in mid blather, then gave her an apologetic bow.

          “Oh of course, Mistress Rey!  Artoo!  Don’t just stand there like a wet circuit!  Come along!”

          Artoo, muttering a string of sarcastic beeps, followed his friend back up the ramp. 

          “They can stay in the ship,” Rey assured Ben.  “We’ll need their help but—”

          “It’s fine,” Ben said.  Gently, he cupped her belly.  “There’s a guest house and a charging station. And I know how to switch Threepio off.  Believe me.”

          Rey laughed.  Then, finally she kissed him.  The rain lashed down, soaking him, but Ben Solo felt warm.

###

They toured the property—a matter of a few minutes, though it had taken Ben half a year of sweat.  He found himself looking forward to having droids again, for there’d been none to help him in his task.  Rey’s exclamations of pleasure and surprise made him forget his hammered thumbs and aching muscles, but yes: it felt good to have beings around him.  He only realized his loneliness now that it was gone.

          It will return. 

          They’d come to the edge of the sea cliff that marked the east edge of the property.  They paused, standing just inside a windbreak of swaying pines.  A little stretch of meadow tapered off into the cliff-point, which overlooked  a rocky beach and the vast, churning sea.  A colony of sea-cows lowed farther down the beach, their voices blending with the trilling of the porgs.  For an instant, Ben could almost see his future children: running up n the beach, ambushing each other among the dunes…

          A girl and a boy, his mother had told him. 

          Tears abruptly prickled his eyes. 

          “It’s alright,” Rey said beside him.  “I feel it too.”

          “What? Terrified?” he asked.

          “Of course!” she said.  “You’d be crazy not to be!  I’ve never even changed a dirty nappy!  And feeding twins…!” She shuddered.

          “I was more thinking about the future,” Ben replied.  “Not just for me.  What’s going to happen to all of us?”

          Rey gave his waist a squeeze.  “Well, first of all, we’ll be the best damn parents in the galaxy.”

          “Naturally,” he said.

          “And then: the best Jedi.”

          He snorted.  “If we must.”

          “Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” Rey said.  “We get to choose.”  Her gaze flitted outward, across the thunderous waves, the rain beginning to plink off the edge of her hood.  “We don’t have to replicate the past,” she said.  “We can create something new.  Something better.  Less rigid.”

          “How, though?” Ben asked.  “I’m dead, remember?  And you can’t stay here forever—and when people realize you have children…”

          Below them, the sea thrashed and coiled. 

          Gently, Rey cupped his cheek.

          “That’s ahead of us,” she said.  “We’ll work something out.  And we have friends.”  She kissed him again, reassuring and passionate. “Besides,” she finished.  “We’re a dyad.  The Force wants us together.”

          “Screw the Force,” Ben said.  “I want to be with you.”

          “Then we have everything we need,” Rey said.  She’d begun to shiver.  It was time to get indoors.  Time to be warm and make love and be parents and right the wrongs they’d been handed and the wrongs he had done.  Time to be Jedi and create an order that would not mirror the sins of the past.

          Rey smiled as if she’d read his thoughts.  Which, probably she had.

          “Things are going to change in this galaxy,” she said.  “But right now the only thing I want to change are my clothes.”

          Ben brightened.  It was all dawning on him: how they stood at the beginning of things. 

          “I am really good with changing clothes,” he said. 

          They laughed together like children as he lifted her in his arms. 

          Together they left the churning sea behind them and headed for the steady, welcome light of home.

Chapter Text

Epilogue

The Restorer

Tyrion was in his fiftieth year when he heard a voice he’d thought was gone forever.  It wasn’t Bran, though it came from the weirwood tree—the one that had swallowed the Broken King.  The tree grew behind the throne in what Tyrion thought of as “The New Hall.”  The Old Hall, seat of so many Targaryens and tyrants, had passed away along with the Iron Throne. 

          The message came on a whisper of leaves. 

          Oh no, Tyrion thought.  Not again.

          He gathered a handful of knights and retainers and, within the week, was heading for Winterfell.

###

Even by dragon the journey took time.  Tyrion used it to observe his kingdom.  It was three years into a fruitful summer, and the songs around Maidenpool and White Harbor touted “Tyrion the Restorer.”  It was a definite improvement from the early days when “Tyrion the Imp” and “Tyrion the Traitor” were on everyone’s tongue.  One didn’t simply pop out of a mysterious portal, accompanied by droids and dragons, and take over a kingdom.  It had taken a push from his fellow small counselors, and a minor battle or two, before Tyrion got his hearing.  In the end, perhaps impressed by Tyrion’s restraint with Tysha, the lords and ladies of the realm had declared Tyrion Lannister King.  Only the Prince of Dorne had raised objections—but these ceased once he was allowed to study BB-39.  (Threenine proceeded to zap him so many times, the prince quit his studies and King’s Landing in disgust.  His plan to form an army of “rolling men” to patrol the Boneway vanished with him back into Dorne.)

          Threenine remained at the Red Keep now, helping Grand Maester Tarly, to whom the droid had taken an unexpected liking.  When not writing the definitive account of Tyrion’s rule, Tarly fussed endlessly over the “miraculous machine.”  He was currently working with the droid on several promising inventions.  One, which Tarly called a “light sphere,” looked as if it might literally banish shadows. 

          It was possible that Tyrion Lannister’s reign would end much more brightly than it had begun.

###

The reception at Winterfell was warm.  Queen Sansa, determined to remain as independent as her kingdom--and after so many horrifying husbands, who could blame her?—had never married, but she had adopted several foundlings both highborn and low.  Tyrion had counted five on the last of his infrequent visits.  This time there were seven.  It took Tyrion a moment to recognize the two additions.

          “Jon’s girls?” he whispered, waddling up to Sansa, who took his hands and bent to kiss his cheek. 

          “Sansa and Arya,” smiled the Queen in the North. They were pretty maids between eighteen and twenty years.  Both had Jon’s dark eyes and their wildling mother’s golden hair.  The contrast reminded Tyrion of Daenerys, but those striking features were all Stark. 

          “I would have come sooner if I’d known,” Tyrion said.  “Did you…I assume they know I’m a family friend?”

          Queen Sansa squeezed his hand.  “Of course, Your Grace.  But…”

          “We didn’t want to disturb you until it was time,” piped up Arya. 

          “Arya!” exclaimed Sansa the Younger (who seemed, in fact, the elder by all of a year).  She dropped a blushing curtsy to Tyrion.  “Forgive her, Your Grace.  We’re…new to proper society.”

          At this, Arya Stark, Second of Her Name, rolled her eyes and snorted—and Tyrion Lannister laughed.  Gods!  He could see them all in those faces!  All the Starks who’d ever been!  In the final twist-of-fate, it was Jon who’d saved the lineage.  The Bastard of Winterfell carrying on the ancient blood!

          “You wonderful children!” Tyrion exclaimed.  “Please!  Come hug your king—and tell me how you got here!”

###

Three days later the mood was more subdued as the party flew onward, into the North.  Sansa and Ser Brienne, who’d remained Captain of the King’s Guard, rode Dappleflower—the first of Tysha’s miraculous children.  (Ser Brienne had named the dragon herself for its mottled red-gold-and-black markings.  Horrified by Tasha’s first appearance, she was now Tyrion’s best dragon rider—and eager to chat with her former ward.)  Behind came Tyrion with Lady Arya and a foundling boy named Merrin, the girl’s special friend.  Ser Podrick rode with Sansa the Younger, while a cadre of Knights followed, much more slowly, below.

          Arya and Merrin whooped and called, but the rest of the party had a pensive air.  They’d spent the previous night in the thriving Castle Black, around which a township of former wildlings had sprung.  There, in the familiar common room, Arya had proclaimed they would “find it” today.  She had some of her uncle Bran’s farsight—though not enough to say what her father had intended them to find.

          Go North, Tyrion, Jon’s had said, voice whispering through the crimson leaves.  Where the light meets the branches, you’ll have answers.

          “To what?” Tyrion muttered. 

          But he thought he knew. 

###

Around noon, the world below became too tangled to see.  They were far North, in places Tyrion had never been.  Arya the Younger had quieted.  She scanned the ground while Merrin snored against her back.  At length, she turned in Tysha’s saddle and looked at Tyrion with depthless black eyes.

          “We should descend, my king,” she said.

          Tyrion nodded.  He felt it too.

          On the ground, the party left the dragons (and sleeping Merrin) with the knights.  Then three Starks and one Lannister ventured into the trees.

          They walked a long time without speaking, simply listening to the forest gather in.  Tyrion had no idea where they were on the map.  North.  True North.  But it was changed.  Splotches of snow peppered the ground, but bright grasses and ferns flourished everywhere.  There were even some stunning wildflowers that Queen Sansa brushed thoughtfully with her hands.

          They paused once to take a hasty meal and drink hot tea from a shared flask.  Then, with the youngest Starks in the lead, they pressed on, silent and sure, to their final appointment.

          Before them, the dark trees thinned, giving way to well-spaced oaks and evergreens.  Arya and Sansa picked up their pace and began to chatter in tinkling voices.

          “Remember…?”

          “Yes!  And this…?”

          “So, this is where they lived,” Tyrion said.

          “Where Jon and Val raised them,” Queen Sansa agreed.  “For a time.”  From what Arya said, it had been a small time indeed.  A sickness had come, claiming princess Val and many others who’d followed the Unknown King.  Jon had led the community away after that, to snowier regions closer to the Wall.

          The light brightened and a clearing emerged, the remains of a small holdfast still standing.  A freshet of wind sweetened the air and rustled a multitude of scarlet leaves.

          “Gods!” Queen Sansa breathed.  The right half of the clearing was taken up by a Heart Tree.  A wise, womanly face marked its center.  Its vast branches roofed the clearing in crimson leaves.  A whole grove of smaller weirwoods had grown up beyond it.

          Beside the grove were the dragon’s bones. 

          Tyrion gave the smallest of whimpers.  In the end, Drogon had lain down with Ghost.  The dragon’s huge claws were curled protectively around the wolf, the wings that had soared over Meereen and King’s Landing, folded gently in repose.

          “Oh, father,” Sansa the Younger sighed.  She put an arm around her sister and their golden heads rested together.      

          “So they’re gone,” Tyrion whispered.  But, of course, he’d known.  Only…

          He turned at the sigh of crimson leaves. 

          The light was getting on to evening, but it still brightened and fluttered through the weirwood canopy.  As Tyrion’s gaze trailed from leaves to trunk he caught a flutter of white in the undergrowth.  He grasped Queen Sansa’s hand and shrank against her as the tangle of bushes gave way for—

           “Ghost?” Young Arya strained against her sister as the white wolf emerged into the evening light.

          “No, that’s a female,” Young Sansa said.

          As if to prove this, the branches parted again.

          “Cubs!” Arya squeaked.  They were. Thre direwolf cubs: one black, one white, one silver.  Their young mother sat calmly as they crept towards the Stark girls.  Accustomed to wolves, the girls knelt and proffered their hands.

          Tyrion realized Queen Sansa was squeezing him with even more force than he was squeezing her.

          “You don’t think…?” she said, managing to indicate the living wolves and the bones of their forebearer with a single nod of her head. 

          Tyrion shrugged.  “Anything is possible.”  Who knew what had happened after Jon and Daenerys left Exegol?  Their bones weren’t with Drogon’s and time between worlds was strange.  Despite spending weeks in another world, Tyrion had arrived back in Westeros an hour after he’d left.  And he hadn’t gone through a flaming star.  The Seven alone knew how that might change one’s trajectory.

         Queen Sansa, somehow reassured by his response, relaxed and grew thoughtful as her nieces knelt before the wolves.

          “It looks like you have some new subjects,” Tyrion commented.

          “Strange,” Sansa said.  “When my brothers found our wolves there was one for each child—even Jon.  Who is the extra cub for, do you think?”

          Tyrion watched the white cub gambol in front of Arya, causing the girl to chuckle and wipe at her tears. 

          “You’re still young, Sansa, you know,” he said. “Maybe there’ll be another Stark child.”

          The queen’s snort—so much like Young Arya’s on a prior evening—showed him what she thought of that.

          “Are you attempting to flirt, my lord?” she asked dryly.

          “No!” Tyrion protested.  “Although, there is a black cub.  I’m sure if you and I had a child, the poor thing would be sure to bond with the black.”

          “Oh?” teased the queen.  Young Sansa, more patient than her sister, had just gathered the black cub in her arms.  “How do you know he’d be the black sheep and not the silvery Prince That Was Promised?”

          “How do I know he’d be a he?” Tyrion returned.  “Anyway, I’m rather done with prophecies…”

          “Aunt Sansa!” Arya cried, the white cub dancing about her.  “This is why Da brought us—I feel it!”

          Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North, smiled.  “I think you’re right, sweetling.”

          “So…we can keep them?”

          “Let’s ask their mother.”  The queen turned to Tyrion.  “Can wolves abide dragon back, do you think?  I’d take the mother too.  If she wants.”  Tyrion nodded.  There was such a wistful hope in her eyes he would have promised her the moon.

          While the Stark women consulted the mother wolf (who licked the queen’s face, summoning a rare laugh), Tyrion hung back, regarding the dragon, and thinking of all that had passed.  Jon gone.  Daenerys gone.  It was Tyrion’s time now—but how lonely it was!

          The light deepened, the Northern sun setting in fire.  Tyrion watched, squinting--then gasped.  He held his breath, unbelieving for a moment, shielding his eyes as the light began to dim.  But the figures beneath the Heart Tree didn’t vanish.  They stayed, glowing pale against the coming of night. The man had a slightly melancholy face and the woman a fall of silvery hair.  A white wolf stood contentedly beside them while, at the edge of the vision, came the stir of massive wings…

          “My lord!” Tyrion whispered.  “My lady!  My friends!”

          Was he mad, or did the apparitions smile?

          He thought they did: the deep, calm smiles of those who have earned their eternal rest.

          The man raised the lady’s hand and kissed it.

          The red light swelled and faded away.

          King Tyrion Lannister blinked and rubbed the stinging tears from his eyes.  There was an ache in his heart, but that was alright.

          His friends had their rest.

          And he had his kingdom.

          Quietly, so as not startle his companions, he ventured forward and placed a hand on Queen Sansa’s shoulder.

          The queen looked up from cuddling her wolf.

          “We should start back,” Tyrion said.

The End.