He let his eyes close, feigning the exhaustion of a recovering child.
But inside, his mind was moving with terrifying clarity.
A stone ceiling greeted him.
Rough-hewn timber beams.
Firelight dancing across masonry.
What trickery is this?
he thought, his mind curling into a sneer of scorn.
This place was primitive.
The room looked crude based on everything he could already see.
It was a forgotten corner of existence that would never have warranted his attention, let alone the indignity of his presence.
In the era of his true ascendancy, such a world would have been broken to obedience long before it ever drew his gaze; its people would be mere fuel for the Imperial machine along with whatever geological resources it might have.
He reached outward, extending his consciousness into the void, seeking the familiar architecture of power he knew so much.
He sought the suffocating dark nexus of his sanctum on Coruscant, the echoes of his fleets, and the scream of the stars under his command.
Nothing… It was all a blur.
Impossible!
This cannot be!!
It couldn’t!!
A thousand curses upon this rock.
He attempted to shift his weight.
The body answered, but sluggishly so; each motion felt dulled, unresponsive, as though the flesh itself resisted command.
The musculature was underdeveloped, lacking both strength and discipline; the limbs were shortened to an almost insulting degree.
He raised a hand into his line of sight.
Even that minor exertion stirred an accelerated rhythm within his chest, the heart laboring where it should have obeyed without notice.
Unacceptable.
The word echoed in the borders of his mind like a thunderclap.
He had found a vessel, yes; the ritual had succeeded.
That much is clear, but the host was a boy.
A whelp.
To be the master of millions of worlds, an entire galaxy, and then to be reduced to a whelp… it felt like a joke.
A cosmic irony he would ensure the universe regretted.
But he was grateful to be alive nevertheless; it was a setback, but nothing that couldn’t be rectified.
A sound snapped his focus, the groan of heavy wood on iron hinges.
Catelyn returned, carrying a fresh basin of water.
She froze, the vessel nearly slipping from her fingers, as she saw his eyes open.
“Robb!?”
The woman’s voice trembled, a desperate, keening cry that grated against his ears like a serrated blade, an abrasive intrusion of sentimentality that he found utterly annoying.
He turned his head towards her, and blue eyes met blue.
For a heartbeat, the mask was not yet set.
Suddenly, his skull throbbed harder this time with a sudden spike of agony.
He gasped, clutching his temple as a deluge of alien memories flooded his mind.
It was a secondary awakening, the life, the history, and the simple emotions of the host body he had seized.
He saw the grey walls of Winterfell through a child’s eyes; felt the bite of northern snow, its harshest chill; of northern summers; of the world this body called home; and recognized the face of the woman standing before him.
Robb Stark.
That was who he was.
For a moment, rage burned like a furnace in his heart.
The Dark Side flared in response to his fury, pulsing so violently that the hearth fires in the room seemed to roar hotter and the shadows on the walls stretched and twisted like living things, while the vines passed unnoticed by the woman, who cared only for his well-being or that of her former son.
‘How interesting.’ He reigned in his fury, calming himself to the reality he was now in.
The shutter fell, and he played along; the Sith disappeared behind the mask of a boy that he now was.
Robb Stark is the firstborn son of Lord Eddard Stark, the warden of this desolate, backwards realm.
He sifted through the host’s memories, cataloging the geography of his new cage.
The North.
A sprawling, frozen wasteland that served as the crown of a continent called Westeros, a patchwork of eight other domains held together by archaic oaths and primitive laws.
It was a kingdom of dirt and superstition, governed by a code of “honor” that he found both quaint and immensely exploitable.
“Mother,” he said.
His voice was shaky, perfectly frail.
The act itself left a distaste in his mouth; he killed his family decades ago because he hated them, and now calling this stranger mother hurt his pride and angered him even more.
But he didn’t show it, as he didn’t want to scare the woman nor seem…
irregular.
He had to act like the son he was; he had to play the role for a moment of insight and understanding in this forsaken place even when the memories told him enough.
Relief broke across her features like a dam bursting.
“Seven be praised,” she breathed, rushing to his side.
She took his face in her hands, warm, grounding, and affectionate.
Oh how he hated every ounce of it.
The urge to strike her down with Force lightning was strong, but he needed information.
He didn’t flinch, nor did he recoil.
He allowed the touch, observing it, filing it away under a single heading of manipulation; it wouldn’t bode well if he killed her in such a place.
Eyes would be immediately drawn, and the force warned him of such actions.
The area was already odd, so making ignorant decisions after what happened on the Death Star and through the essence transfer wasn’t the best option.
Based on what he felt and what he got from the boy’s mind, there was no way off-world.
This backwater had no access to technology of that sort.
Either this place existed beyond the reach of the galaxy he knew… or something obscured his connection to it.
And he did not yet accept the former.
This was a new world, isolated, unfamiliar, and far removed from everything he had built.
If a path back existed, he would find it.
And if it did not… then one would be made.
He had escaped death.
That alone was sufficient—for now.
The body was not the one he had intended.
The resources of Exegol, the servants, the preparations… all were beyond his reach.
The transfer had succeeded, but imperfectly.
Unstable.
To attempt it again in his current state would be… unwise.
The risk of further displacement was unacceptable, and his strength had yet to recover to the level required for such an undertaking.
No matter.
This setback would be corrected in time.
Join the Darkside.