He would not repeat the errors of his former life.
The era of the iron boot and the heavy hand had ended in fire over Endor; brutality, he realized, was a tool with a finite lifespan.
To truly endure, an empire required the illusion of necessity, the soft velvet of the “statesman” to hide the jagged lead of the “tyrant.” He had failed to see these truths during his rule of the empire, but now he was more enlightened than ever in his time here.
Ruling through oppression and fear didn’t do so well for him.
He needed to restrain his sadism, restrain his emotions, and restrain his pleasure in dishing out pain.
He needed to be the Palpatine of the old republic.
He needed to bring that side back out where he wasn’t marred by the features of dark-side corruption and hate.
He couldn’t lead by appointing servants to rule for him that were more soldiers than competent politicians while he faded off in the shadows studying more of the secrets of the darkside and performing experiments.
Tarkin was a useful tool until he became arrogant with that technological terror.
And he paid for his ineptitude with his life.
A shame it was, just as the destruction of the death star was.
But everything would change; that was a promise.
He would bring back the chancellor he once was, the staunch populist that everyone believed in.
He would resurrect the silver-tongued mentor who ruled through charisma, courage, and the appearance of wisdom.
He would bury his sadism deep within his chest, cloaking his malice with cheer until, outwardly, he would be everything a perfect heir and ruler should be, yet inwardly, he would be the same Darth Sidious.
The galaxy would change.
A new empire would be reborn on Exegol, and a new, transformed version of him would also be made stronger, forged in the frozen heart of this world and tempered by the lessons of his defeat.
Let the rebels in the stars celebrate their hollow victory.
For one day he would return, and he would be eternal, more so once he unlocked the secrets of the magic that flowed here.
And perhaps his long-lost goal of immortality could be achieved.
Three weeks later
“Mara,” he called, his quill scratching softly against the parchment.
He did not look up as the heavy oak door thudded shut.
He had sensed her approach in the force long before she reached the threshold of his chamber, rendering any formal introduction redundant.
“Yes, milord.” She bowed her head, a reflexive gesture that went physically unseen, as Palpatine remained fixated on his work and didn’t care to give her a glance.
“Mother has been… inquisitive regarding your presence,” he said.
The words slid from his tongue as if it were not the sort of insipid curiosity.
But such adolescent impulses were beneath him; he possessed no such frailties.
“I’ve persuaded her of your diligence. I told her that I think your company is appropriate and that you are amusing. As a result, you will become my personal chambermaid. It will give your frequent visits to these quarters the necessary cover of justification.”
The girl kept her composure.
He had previously indicated his desire to free her from the monotony of scrubbing floors and cleaning pots, and she reacted with the same composed acceptance he had grown to anticipate.
“I am… grateful for your kindness, my lord,” she replied, her gaze boring into his back.
Palpatiine mentally swiped said platitudes aside.
The coincidence of the name had amused him at first.
Another Mara as his servant.
She was nothing like the red-haired weapon he had once shaped in another life, though how strange that this girl, in whom he saw a flicker of potential, should share the name of his hand.
And where the other Mara had been a creature of fire and focused rage, this one was a study in pale gold and Northern grit.
She was blonde, her features possessing a sharp, fledgling beauty, a straight, noble nose, and cheekbones high enough to catch eyes.
Her skin was a pale canvas, marked only by a faint, nearly imperceptible scar upon her chin.
It was a minor flaw, yet to his eyes, it was the most interesting thing about her face, a testament to a life that had already learned only hardship.
Her entry into his service hadn’t been the smoothest per se, for it had been born of necessity and not loyalty.
He had caught her pocketing silver from a fellow servant; it would have been a clumsy move had it been her first.
When he pressed her on how she had survived the household’s scrutiny for so long, she confessed the truth with a candor born less of honesty than calculation; she stole only from those who could not afford to complain.
Servants with coins of questionable origin.
Men and women who had gained their silver through theft, secret favors, bribes, and other quiet corruptions that festered beneath the respectable face of Winterfell’s household.
She was a clever thing, and he had observed her cunning more often than she would ever realize.
With pressure, direction, and proper resources, she could become far more than a mere servant; she could become a more useful instrument.
She already possessed the foundation.
Septon Chayle had taught her letters when she was seven, and now, at eighteen, she held a sharper command of language and proper speech than nearly anyone of her station.
Palpatine knew the Septon well.
Chayle was a middle-aged, relentlessly cheerful man charged with the upkeep of the castle’s small sept.
Catelyn often brought her children there to kneel before the painted masks of the Seven, and Chayle would unfailingly join them, his piety as bright and shallow as a summer puddle.
“Kindness, is it?” he whispered, as if he were casting doubt on the very reason. Get faster updates on g.com.
“As long as we stay aligned, there will be benefits that exceed monetary gain,” he continued before finally putting down his quill.
He continued to fixate on the ink as it dried, refusing to look up just yet.
“And most importantly, you won’t have to answer for any wrongdoings committed against this household in the past.”
Only then did he lift his head.
Looking across the table, his azure eyes met hers.
His face contorted into a smile.
It was as insincere and calm as the grin he had offered her when he discovered her stealing.
It was a mocking thing that made Mara wince.
She trembled slightly, as though she thought the smile would follow a blow.
Her mouth made a tiny, stiff attempt at thankfulness, but it faded before it could reach her eyes.
Beneath the surface of the encounter, Palpatine reached out.
He didn’t need to see her hands shaking to know her mind.
Trust was a bridge they had not yet finished building, but he was patient.
He had built such bridges over deeper chasms than this, so it would pose no challenge.
He shifted his focus back to the business of secrets.
“Our friend at the brothel,” he said, his voice dropping into something more intimate and conspiratorial, the words meant for her alone.
“Did you make contact with her?”
“Yes, milord, I did,” Mara answered, her voice regaining its confidence.
“She says the Madam has been barren nearly all her life. No family, no children, and—most importantly—no will. She checked for the papers personally.”
“Ahh, yes. This development is good news,” he murmured, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable.
He offered no further explanation, keeping the gears of his manipulations hidden behind a mask of approval.
Palpatine interlaced his fingers, leaning back into the back of his chair as he contemplated the information he had received; he suspected as much, and now it came to fruition.
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