It had taken a month of sailing and days of arduous riding to get here.
This wasn’t his first visit to the northern Westerosi kingdom; in his youth, he and his master had passed through these harsh lands on a pilgrimage to one of the world’s largest wonders: the Wall.
Miles upon miles of ice studded high above in the air.
Now, thirty years later, he had returned for a different purpose.
This time, they were traveling towards the center of dark power, towards the place Dastar had been, towards the abode of their host.
And finally, they had arrived at Winterfell.
The seat of House Stark.
The place where the chosen of the aether languished.
The servant had not provided Qarro with the entity’s true name, but for the sake of logical categorization, he continued to refer to him simply as the Fallen.
The man had invited them here; the specifics weren’t clear, but Qarro didn’t care not for the reason why, for he came on his own desires of fulfilling the prophecy and for power and knowledge, and even now he could feel it—the entire area was utterly saturated with a dark power, pulled directly from the aether and bent to the man’s will.
It felt like the lingering, heavy magic of a ruined city of the long-lost Rhoynish people, an ancient, permanent presence.
Qarro spurred his horse forward, Draqen following close behind.
They rode down the dirt path for two hundred meters before Qarro suddenly pulled on the reins, bringing his mount to a halt.
“What is it, Master?” Draqen asked, catching the subtle shift in Qarro’s expression.
“There is a barrier here,” Qarro said, pointing a wrinkled finger toward the road ahead.
“A psychic boundary designed to sense anything that enters. Marvelous…” The older man repeated the word, whispering it like a prayer, as if he still couldn’t quite believe what his senses were telling him; it was beyond fascinating.
“The moment we step past that boundary stone, we will be detected.”
“Impossible,” Draqen said with bated breath as he couldn’t believe what his master had said.
He had sensed the energy that lingered in the land, a consequence of the man they sought out; he was powerful, of course, so the lingering energies would’ve been some backlash of some secret rituals he might’ve performed.
All of it was his doing, and now his master was talking about a barrier that he couldn’t feel or sense.
Was he really that weak?
No.
“This power…” Qarro breathed, hardly able to contain his excitement.
To project such a presence from nearly two leagues away, to sense other psychic beings at this distance—it was impossible.
No ordinary man or sorcerer could achieve such a feat.
They could have sacrificed a million souls on a bloody altar, and it still wouldn’t yield this kind of strength or result.
Yet the source of their curiosity, and perhaps their salvation, lay just ahead in a place that looked utterly meager compared to the grandiose architecture of Braavos.
How ironic.
“Let us go, Draqen. The fallen awaits us.” Qarro called to his companion, nudging his horse forward into a slow trot.
The sun hung high above their heads, blazing down and casting shadows…
“I see more and more children coming for your tutelage, Septon Chayle,” Palpatine said, keeping his tone warm and encouraging.
“I would say this increase is grand progress. A few short weeks ago there were but five; now I count thirty.”
The septon offered an eager smile, nodding his head in rapid agreement.
“I have you and Lady Stark to thank for this, young lord,” Chayle replied warmly.
“The Light of the Seven is never too dull to reach those who seek it, along with knowledge. The holy texts remind us of these truths often. Some of your companions are doing exceptionally well in their studies, and I must say, you have left a lasting impression on them.”
Robb offered a boyish grin, appearing somewhat embarrassed by the flattery.
But deep down, Palpatine felt no such endearment.
The “friends” he had brought to the sept were common-born boys selected from Wintertown and the castle walls—servants, messengers, and stable boys.
He had taken a particular interest in a handful of them.
They were youths who showed promise, whom he allowed to call him a friend, though they were anything but.
As a Sith Lord, his relationships had always been defined by pure manipulation; others were merely pawns to be used, positioned, and eventually discarded.
He had regularly called people ‘friends’ in his past life—even Darth Vader and Count Dooku—but it was always a tool for control, a velvet glove over an iron fist.
Here in this new world, reborn as Robb Stark, there were far more complex guises to maintain.
He had to play the part just as he once had as a senator, then chancellor, and finally, emperor.
Let them look at the stone in his hand, he thought, while they overlook his true face.
They were utterly distracted by his false facade and the company he kept.
Not that he would ever surround himself with fools; he required competence in his inner circle, which was precisely why he was ensuring these peasants were educated enough to be of actual use to him.
That necessity was compounded by the fact that this backwater realm possessed no public institutions for learning.
The only viable way to see the smallfolk educated was through the sept, which he had subtly persuaded his mother to renovate and expand.
He had previously advised his father on the importance of building institutions where the common people could learn.
Palpatine had framed it practically, pointing out how a literate smallfolk would bolster the northern economy down the line.
Yet Eddard Stark had dismissed the idea as a waste of coin, claiming there was no one qualified to appoint as masters to teach common children.
Palpatine had debated the man fiercely, presenting a dozen hard facts and logical truths that Ned couldn’t genuinely deny.
But alas, Ned Stark had proven to be precisely the stubborn annoyance Palpatine knew him to be.
Robb (Palpatine) had been denied his schools, but a denial had never stopped a Sith from finding a loophole.
“My mother and I share the belief that the children of the realm are our future,” Palpatine replied to the cleric, his voice a perfect mirror of youthful idealism.
“For those of my own age, I can think of no greater honor than to help them better themselves so that they might forge a grander tomorrow. To aid in this, I will see to it that more books from the Great Keep’s library are brought here. And I have even greater news: Mother wishes me to inform you that she has agreed to invite more devout members of the Faith to Winterfell to assist you in this monumental undertaking.”
The septon’s eyes went wide at that.
“The Seven bless Lady Stark a thousand times over!” Septon Chayle cried out in genuine joy, clasping his hands together. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
“This will do much to ease the burden of my daily duties.”
“I am certain it will,” Robb replied, offering another warm, reassuring smile.
The Sith Lord was about to speak another word of polite encouragement, but the Force suddenly flared, snapping his awareness away from the mundane conversation.
They were here.
A cold, mental grin spread across his consciousness as he drifted into a momentary daze.
They had finally crossed his barrier.
He had wondered how long it would take the fools to cross the narrow sea and find their way to the North.
He had deliberately thrown them a few breadcrumbs and spared that servant of theirs to return the message and an informal invitation for them to meet.
It was a long shot, but he knew they would take the bait.
He sensed they would.
To a creature of Palpatine’s caliber, sensing other Force-sensitives across continents was child’s play.
In his past life, he could track an individual across dozens of star systems and planetary sectors; all he required was a microscopic connection, a single thread of intent he could pull on until the victim was reeled in.
It was precisely why true masters of the dark side utilized Force stealth if they ever wished to move about unseen—and even then, that art possessed flaws if the practitioner grew careless.
These foreigners, however, had no such subtleties.
Nevertheless, the master of this little occult, called the covenant, had arrived.
The bridge Palpatine sought—the one person or few he desperately needed to build up the North—and the elite servants he intended to acquire were finally truly within arm’s reach.
These were the men who would provide him with the massive influx of wealth he required.
From the mind of the pathetic whelp he had previously tortured, Palpatine knew that Qarro and his inner circle were wealthy patrons—men of immense influence in the Free Cities.
They were the hidden hands that truly steered the ancient city of bravos and influenced its legendary banks.
He mentally cackled at the sheer predictability of sentient nature.
It was like manipulating the Trade Federation all over again, along with the Intergalactic Banking Clan.
Different world, different era, but the greed, the vanity, and the predictable thirst for power remained exactly the same.
They would pave his path to dominance, entirely unaware that they were funding their own subjugation, or they did know yet didn’t care.
How feeble of them, but he was grateful.
Pawns would always be pawns.
Without moving an inch, Palpatine casually filtered his consciousness into the lead traveler’s mind, effortlessly bypassing any meager psychic defenses.
He saw through the man’s memories and desires within a fraction of a second.
A simpleton, just like all the rest.
The man sought ancient knowledge and absolute power.
And Palpatine would gladly grant him a taste of both, so long as he served diligently.