It's the beginning of the month - and that doesn't mean a thing in my messed-up update schedules. But I've published the 8th chapter for my ongoing Thrawn x Dr Lani Kordes story. Although it doesn't contain any smut this time. I got very much carried away with the plot.
Chapter 8: The Station
of The Inbound Flight
If you like my writing, let's have a ko-fi.
When it first came into view, it looked tiny. The closer the Chimaera got to it, though, it grew in size considerably, revealing a perplexing structure of the whole complex consisting of interlocked ships in various shapes and sizes. Many looked ancient to you, and you did not doubt there would be a few from the Clone-War era in the pile. There was, however, a newer one that seemed to serve as a control centre, and on Pyrondi’s command, the communications officer’s hands were flying over their console in an attempt to hail them.
You stood there on the bridge beside her as she was overlooking the personnel in the pits. You had no mental capacity to wonder about your appearance – with deep circles under your eyes and civilian clothes hanging on your frame, you looked like a ragdoll.
“We have no dealings with the imperial military, you should leave in peace,” said the alien face that appeared on screen without preamble, in Sy Bisti, sounding none-too-happy. It was a humanoid specimen of Lasat people.
“We’ve come –“ But you stopped Pyrondi before she could continue.
“We didn’t come to cause trouble,” you stepped forward, speaking in Cheunh. “There is a Chiss male aboard in need of medical attention, and I was advised by the Supreme Admiral Ar’alani of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Fleet to seek your help.”
“And who are you to demand as such?” the Lasat scoffed.
“I am his wife.”
The silence was deafening, before a bark of laughter cut through it like a razor. “You are but a human,” he wheezed in between the fits of mirth, as if you had just told him the best cantina joke he had heard in months.
Human. Friend. Partner. Wife. Mother –
Instead, you opted for a tactic of crudeness, thanking the Maker for all that dirty talk that Thrawn had taught you. “Well, I could tell you what his cock feels like when he takes me, or how his brows furrow in concentration when he fills my cunt. But I would lose precious time that I could invest elsewhere,” you sneered. “I would take him to the Chiss Ascendancy if I could, but a war started there a few months ago.”
“And how do you know?”
“I was on Naporar when it broke out.”
Another pregnant pause. The Lasat seemed to consult something with someone off-screen before he turned back to you. “I like your spirit, Little Human. You may come over with the patient, I’ll notify the Chiss healer.”
“Thank you.” Your attention shifted towards Pyrondi when the Lasat’s face disappeared. “We’re cleared to take him in,” you released a breath you didn’t realise that you had been holding. As a further confirmation, the officer at the comms station signalled that he had received a set of coordinates within the structure of the medical station.
“What exactly have you told him?” Pyrondi whispered before you could turn on your heel and head to the med bay.
You blushed violently. “That I would rather take Thrawn all the way to the Chiss Ascendancy if I wasn’t too scared of him dying on me than risk a flea infestation from him,” you blatantly lied.
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Grand Admiral Thrawn deliberately stalls the Empire just long enough to ensure his family's permanent disappearance into the shadows.
Masterlist, Part 31
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“I don’t want to go back,” (Y/N) panted as they approached the Lothal residence, “please, they already know.”
“We must act as though none of this happened, (Y/N),” Irtur said.
“My son, what will they do to my son? What will I do as someone who has given life and has now slain Batonnese blood.”
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She didn’t rest that night. Beside the crib of her son, she sat upon the cold floor, drawing her knees close against her breast. She had she washed her hands three times in the clear waters, seeking to cleanse them of the night’s dark work, yet still, in the secret chambers of her mind, she deemed she could feel the phantom stain of blood lingering upon her skin, a river that no stream of earth might ever wash away.
The prison corridors replayed endlessly behind her eyes. Gret standing inside the cell. The sound of the blaster…
She placed her hands over her ears, as though they would prevent the sound from playing in her head. After some time, she removed them and looked into the cradle of her child.
“My sweet boy,” she whispered.
The bedroom doors slid open softly behind her and she turned too quickly. Thrawn stood in the doorway still wearing his uniform though the long evening had left faint exhaustion beneath the perfect composure of his posture.
His eyes found her immediately.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked calmly.
“Yes,” (Y/N) lied softly.
“You are awake very early.”
“I could not fully settle.”
Thrawn stepped farther into the room, his gaze moving briefly toward (C/N) asleep in the crib before returning to her.
“There was a security incident tonight near the northern detention district,” he said evenly.
“A prison break attempt?” She gulped, attempting to remain still.
“One detainee was killed during the event.”
“I had not heard.”
“No,” he said. “The information remains restricted.”
Thrawn caressed the dress he had folded the other night as it was still in the same position he had left it.
“One of the surveillance sectors failed shortly before the incident,” he continued. “Several reports are still being compiled.”
(Y/N) folded her arms lightly across herself to conceal the trembling beginning again in her left hand.
“A maintenance issue?”
“Possibly,” His eyes remained fixed on her face, “I dislike incomplete reports.”
Her breath caught violently, because he said it while looking directly at her.
Behind them, (C/N) shifted softly in his sleep. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Thrawn’s voice came again, calm as ever.
“I am relocating the household temporarily.”
“What?”
“There is a secured residence outside the capital district,” he said. “More isolated. Easier to manage during the remainder of Fete Week.”
“The prison incident changed this?”
“It accelerated an existing consideration.”
“And Irtur?”
“He will accompany the household in his diplomatic capacity.”
Thrawn stepped closer then, stopping beside the crib. His son slept peacefully beneath the low nursery light, entirely unaware that his parents stood above him speaking in half-truths and concealed suspicions. For the first time that evening, something in Thrawn’s expression softened slightly as he looked down at the child. Then he said quietly:
“You appear anxious.”
Then, his crimson red eyes averted to her.
“I wonder why.”
Under the unblinking stare of those crimson eyes, her breath caught, and a sudden tremor shook her left hand. She strove to hold his gaze with a proud front, yet beneath that piercing and ruby light, she felt the chill of an inner dread, as though the innermost secrets of her soul were laid bare before a silent judge.
“You should rest while you can,” he said with gentleness that nearly broke her apart. Because it would have been easier if he were cruel. So much easier.
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The new residence sat far from Lothal’s capital in the eastern highlands where the land opened into rolling green plains broken occasionally by pale stone cliffs. It was beautiful in the deliberate way Imperial residences often were, isolated enough to feel peaceful while still remaining heavily guarded. Somewhere deeper in the residence, Uiona tended to (C/N) while the security detail rotated outside with quiet military precision.
(Y/N) hated it immediately.
She stood near the fireplace with her arms folded tightly across herself as Irtur poured something expensive into two glasses he had absolutely not been given permission to open.
“I think he knows,” she said.
“How much?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head once. “Enough to move us here.”
He handed her one of the glasses.
“That alone proves nothing.”
“He asked where I was.”
“And?”
“And I lied.”
“That has not historically stopped you before.”
“This was different,” (Y/N) said before she moved toward the window, staring out toward the rain-covered hills. “He mentioned the prison break immediately. He said the reports were incomplete and then he looked directly at me when he said he dislikes incomplete reports.”
“Well. That is unfortunate.”
“That is your response?”
“It is my calm response. My internal response is significantly worse.”
“Why hasn’t he sent me back to Coruscant? If he truly suspects me, why am I still here?”
“Because it is still Fete Week. The Empire would not publicly remove the Grand Admiral’s wife during a major military celebration unless they possessed undeniable proof.” His expression darkened slightly. “Not you specifically. Not now. Not while your face is currently hanging from half the city.”
The perfect Imperial family, the thought of it made her ill.
“He is containing the situation,” Irtur continued. “Which means he does not yet know enough. I need to go to Batonn.”
“What?”
“I do not know what Gret told them before we reached him.” His voice remained calm, though she could hear the exhaustion beneath it now. “If the ISB pulled names from him, routes, old contacts…”
(Y/N) looked away immediately because she knew he was right.
“I need to clean this mess before it spreads further,” he continued. “Destroy records. Move people if necessary. Speak with the northern cells directly.”
“They’re watching Batonn closely.”
“They always are,” Then Irtur stepped closer to her, “You should remain here.”
“In this beautiful Imperial cage?”
“For now.”
“And what if Thrawn already knows?”
“Then he has already made an interesting decision by not turning you over.”
Carefully, he turned her wrist upward and pressed a brief kiss against the Batonnese signet ring she still wore despite everything.
“You are still our queen,” he said quietly.
“Irtur…”
“If this worsens,” he interrupted softly, “protect the child first.”
“When do you leave?” she asked.
“Within the hour.”
He moved towards the doorway, his black and white clothing swaying behind him.
“This marriage does not end peacefully,” he said quietly. “You know that.”
The very moment he crossed the threshold and stepped out from her sight, heavy rain began to fall, as if nature herself were hastening to wash his earthly frame clean of every past transgression. It was an melancholy departure, for though he walked with a steady step, the relentless downpour seemed to weep for a man who was leaving the comforts of life behind forever.
She moved to sit near the hearth, the fire feeling unnaturally cool on her skin. (Y/N) stared at it for some time, before removing her prosthetic from her left hand to feel the fire dance between her fingers. The fire danced between her, but if she got too close it would inevitably burn her, but she didn’t care. She simply wished she could throw herself into the flame, the cold flame.
Thrawn.
She woke up near the hearth, the fire had been extinguished and for some reason, the room felt warmer.
(Y/N) fixed her gown and had just descended into the lower receiving hall when she saw the stormtroopers first. There were four of them, positioned at the entrance and Lord Kaelor Virex was situated in between them.
For a second, she thought that she was looking at Gret again, that he had somehow raised himself from the dead and had come to seek his revenge.
But Kaelor stood harder than his son ever had. The stormtroopers watched him closely enough to make the purpose obvious.
(Y/N) slowed near the staircase.
“My Lord, I did not expect you here on Lothal,” she said though he was meant to greet her first.
“I am here to collect my son’s body,” he said in his strong, rugged voice. Kaelor’s eyes moved briefly over the polished Imperial surroundings with visible disgust before returning to her. “I was informed the Empire would release his remains under supervision.”
“You may stay here tonight,” she said after a moment. “The city is still unstable after the incident.”
“In your residence?”
“It would be safer.”
“For whom?”
“I am trying to help.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You are trying to ease your conscience, Queen Geronh.”
The stormtroopers shifted subtly at the tone. One hand moved nearer to a holstered weapon. Kaelor noticed that too and smiled faintly in the way broken men sometimes did.
“I will not remain beneath Imperial protection,” he continued. “Especially not yours.”
“You should not travel alone on Lothal right now.”
“My son was tortured in an Imperial prison,” Kaelor replied evenly. “I no longer possess a meaningful relationship with caution.” He now lowered his voice and stepped closer to her, he now towered over her and it frightened her. He never frightened her before. “When Gret first joined the resistance, he still believed in you. He said the queen would remember Batonn eventually,” His expression hardened further. “I told him queens who marry conquerors do not return.”
(Y/N) could not breathe properly for a moment as Kaelor stepped back again before she could answer. Then one of the stormtroopers moved forward stiffly.
“Transport is prepared.”
Kaelor did not look at the stormtrooper and kept his eyes fixated on her.
“You wear grief beautifully,” he said coldly. “The Empire trained you well.”
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As Fete week came, it had gone. The banners were slowly removed from the capital. Portraits came down from shop windows and government plazas. Imperial officers departed in waves of polished transports while the city returned to its ordinary rhythm beneath the Empire.
Just as quietly as she had arrived on Lothal, (Y/N) was sent away.
The transport waiting on the landing platform was sleek and immaculate, its engines already humming softly in preparation for departure back to Coruscant. It rained again that day, and she wished she could’ve said that it was a beautiful day but it wasn’t.
She stood near the boarding ramp holding (C/N) against her shoulder while attendants finalized the luggage transfers behind them. Uiona remained nearby speaking quietly with one of the pilots as too many stormtroopers lined the platform perimeter.
Everything lately felt watched, even when she was alone in the darkness of her bedroom, she felt watched.
“Lady Thrawn,” Thrawn called as he approached across the landing platform in full uniform, white against the muted grey morning. “You are prepared for departure?”
“Yes.”
She answered too quickly and he noticed, of course he noticed. It caused him to step closer, focusing his attention on the child in her arms.
“The journey to Coruscant will take approximately sixteen hours,” he said. “The child’s medical supplements have already been transferred aboard.”
“Thank you.”
“You will remain within the Imperial Residence District upon arrival.”
She nodded once at the instruction. (C/N) stirred lightly against her shoulder and Thrawn’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly as he reached out, adjusting the edge of the blanket away from the child’s face with careful precision. The gentleness of it worried her.
“You should avoid public appearances for several weeks,” he continued carefully. “The celebrations were… extensive.”
“Am I being hidden?” (Y/N) asked as she looked up at him.
“You are being protected.”
“Is there a difference?”
“To you, there often is.”
Wind moved across the landing platform, carrying the distant scent of rain and engine fuel. Her grip tightened unconsciously around (C/N). (Y/N) lowered her eyes briefly toward her son because suddenly looking directly at Thrawn felt dangerous again.
“You are quiet this morning,” he observed.
“I’m tired.”
“No, you are troubled.”
A long silence filled the distance afterward as machinery and the smell of rain filled the room. Then, before she could retreat from it, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss against her forehead.
“You should rest when you arrive on Coruscant,” Thrawn said as he pulled away. “You have not slept properly in days.”
Throughout the long flight, she remained utterly motionless on her bed, seeking refuge from her sorrows in an unceasing slumber. She did not rouse herself to partake of any refreshment, nor did she once address her companions, preferring the silent oblivion of sleep to the painful reality of her thoughts. The entire duration of the transport was passed in a state of sorrowful torpor, her mind stubbornly closed against a world that now afforded her so little comfort.
And when she arrived, Coruscant greeted her with the same grey coldness she had grown accustomed to. Though her imperial attendants greeted her with a bow and smiles she felt as though these actions felt unreal. She had too much to burden, and too much to hide that returning a smile would be against her.
(Y/N) moved through the enormous apartment like a ghost while (C/N) slept against her shoulder. The nursery had already been prepared before their arrival. Fresh flowers sat arranged beside the windows. New toys had been placed carefully near the crib. Someone had anticipated their return perfectly. The empire anticipated everything, nothing escaped its sight.
Days passed strangely slowly after that.
She stopped attending dinners and appearing publicly. When invitations arrived from senators or officers’ wives, she declined them all through formal correspondence drafted by assistants she barely listened to anymore. Most mornings she remained in the nursery long after (C/N) had fallen asleep again, sitting beside the crib while Coruscant’s endless city lights glowed beyond the windows.
She had not heard from Irtur in some time and it frightened her.
Sleep never found her, and it hadn’t since her academy days on Hosnian Prime.
Some nights she woke abruptly convinced she had heard stormtroopers entering the apartment. Other nights she dreamed of Gret inside the prison cell with her gun pressed to his heart. But sometimes, on the odd occasion when sleep did find her, she dreamed of Clvtorig in the oasis on Batonn. Desperately, she tried to forget him as someone she could never love, but his face was the only thing that could bring her comfort.
But when she couldn’t sleep or couldn’t stand, she found herself in the nursery with her son.
“You should eat something,” Uiona said gently one evening while standing near the nursery doorway.
(Y/N) barely looked up from where she sat near the window holding her son.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You have said that twice today.”
“I wasn’t aware you were counting.”
Uiona fell silent immediately following the guilt that ran across (Y/N)’s face.
“I apologize,” she whispered tiredly. “I did not mean…”
“You are frightened,” Uiona said softly.
“What if something happens to him because of me?” (Y/N) said looking down at her son, moving his growing hair from his face.
“The child is loved,” she said carefully. “Whatever else may exist around this family… that much is true.”
That night she walked the corridor and reached out the door of Thrawn’s office, she asked V3PO to open it and it did. The office remained immaculate exactly as he preferred it. Traces of him were everywhere and it bothered her so much that she stormed out.
In a few mornings, (Y/N) sat alone at the writing desk near the nursery with untouched tea growing cold beside her. There was still nothing from Irtur of Batonn and it worried her. Her hands trembled slightly as she unfolded a sheet of expensive cream-colored correspondence paper bearing the Imperial household seal. Lady Sereth would answer if anyone could.
(Y/N) dipped her pen in ink, the traditional Batonnese ink before writing.
‘Lady Sereth,
I apologize for the lateness of this correspondence. Fete Week required rather more public participation than I had anticipated. I confess I find myself missing quieter company.
There is another matter for which I seek your discretion.
I have not heard from Lord Irtur since our departure from Lothal. This silence is… unusual. I would ask whether Count Clvtorig Tronstad remains within your reach and, if so, whether he might be persuaded to contact me through secure means.
You understand my caution in writing this directly.
Please do not respond through official household channels.
And my Lady,
If there is something I should know, I would prefer honesty over comfort.
With affection,
(Y/N) Geronh.’
When she finished, she stared at the page for a long time. Then carefully folded it closed. She handed it quietly to Uiona, a woman she knew she could forever trust.
“I am sending you to Batonn,” She whispered as though someone was watching them in her own sitting room, “Only to Lady Sereth.”
Uiona bowed, then said, “Of course, your Majesty.”
Afterward, (Y/N) remained standing alone near the apartment windows long after the letter had disappeared into Coruscant’s endless machinery below.
Uiona arrived two weeks later with another note in her hand. Well, it was one note until she flickered her finger and another one appeared under it. (Y/N) took the note outside, to the gardens where she had once walked with Thrawn. She stopped at the same bench she had once sat at with him and opened both of the notes.
Lady Sereth’s handwriting remained as elegant as ever.
‘My Queen,
I received your message safely.
Clvtorig remains alive. That alone is presently a blessing.
Batonn has become unstable since the incident on Lothal. Entire districts in the north are under increased Imperial review, though no public explanation has yet been issued. Several names connected to the old resistance routes have disappeared within the last week.
Irtur has not returned.
No one seems willing to say this aloud, but fear has begun moving through the remaining houses.
I do not yet know which possibility terrifies me more.
Clvtorig refused to remain here long enough for proper conversation. He requested only that this second note be delivered directly into your hands.
You must be careful now.
There are rumors that Lord Vader himself has begun reviewing reports connected to the prison incident.
Burn this after reading.
— Lady Sereth’
She opened the second note that was not as pleasant as the first one:
‘I will return when I am needed.’
(Y/N) stared at the words for a very long time. Then slowly lowered the paper into her lap. Suddenly, she felt more alone than she had since Batonn had bled.
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Six months later
The senate session had run long.
It always ran long when Restos was presenting, which she had come to understand was a deliberate strategy rather than a failure of brevity, the longer the session, the less time the opposing senators had to organize their responses before the vote closed.
She was tired from all of this and sat her bag down inside the apartment door and reached up to remove the first earring without looking. The apartment was quiet in the way it was quiet when the household staff had stepped back for the evening. She removed the second earring and moved to her bedroom where she thought she was alone.
Thrawn was sitting in the chair near the window.
Not the workspace chair, the one she had come to think of as his reading chair, the one angled toward the Coruscant night, though he was not reading. He was in his uniform, the Grand Admiral's white, which meant he had come directly from something official and had not yet changed, which meant he had come directly here, which meant…
She stopped in the doorway.
He was not supposed to be on Coruscant.
The Lothal campaign. He was not supposed to be on Coruscant for another five months.
He looked at her and she looked back at him, nearly jumping at the surprise. She set the earrings on the side table.
"You're not supposed to be here," (Y/N) said.
"No," Thrawn said. "I'm not."
She did not move from the doorway. She stood in it with the bag still over her shoulder. He looked back at her with the expression she had been building a vocabulary for over the years of their marriage, the one that was not the Grand Admiral and not the cold and was the thing she had the most words for now and still not enough.
"There will be an ISB inquiry tomorrow morning," he said. The words arrived with the evenness he applied to everything.
"About what?"
"You," he said, looking at her steadily.
"You," he said.
She could hear the faint sounds of the nursery, Uiona moving, the particular quiet of a room where a child was sleeping and the people in it were being careful about it.
"How long?" Not how long until the inquiry. She was asking how long she had.
He understood the question. He always understood the question.
"You should leave before 0400," he said.
She looked at the window, at Coruscant. At the city that had never been hers, that she had learned to move through and had never learned to love, that was about to become the last thing she saw of this life before it changed into whatever came next.
"Will you come with us?"
"No," he said.
She held his gaze.
“Why?”
He was quiet for a moment. Not the quiet of a man constructing an answer. The quiet of a man who had already made a decision and was now delivering it with the precision he brought to things that had cost him.
"Because someone must remain here," he said, "long enough for your absence to become irreversible."
She set the earring down beside the other one.
She straightened and went to the nursery.
(C/N) was asleep. His hair was getting longer and she moved it away from his face. She lifted him and turned to Uiona who was already in the doorway.
"We do not have much time," Uiona said.
"I know," she said.
"Irtur is waiting. Lower levels. The service corridor on the thirty-first, the same route."
The same route. The maintenance alley and the freight elevator and the hood pulled low and the city that did not watch boxes, only people. She had learned this years ago in a different life and it was still true.
"The child's things," she said.
"Already done," Uiona said. "Two bags. I packed them this morning."
She walked back through the bedroom without looking at the chair by the window, without looking at the Coruscant night, without looking at any of it, and she went to the corridor and she stopped.
She turned.
He was standing in the bedroom doorway now. She had not heard him move. He was looking at her with the expression that had no name in any language she knew.
She looked at the same man who had stood next to her and married her, who had cut her hair and kept it. Who had given her her first child, who she had slowly fallen in love with.
She opened her mouth.
She closed it.
There was nothing that fit inside the available time.
She inclined her head and he held her gaze for a moment before inclining his and watched her walk toward the service corridor and did not look back.
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Irtur was where Uiona had said he would be.
He was in a dark cloak, the hood down, his face carrying the exhaustion of a man who had been moving carefully through the wrong places for months and had arrived here at the end of it.
"He's gotten bigger," he said.
"They do that," she said.
She turned to Uiona.
Uiona was already there. She had been there the whole time, the two bags at her feet, the expression she had been wearing since the nursery doorway, the one that was not performing anything.
She stepped closer to her and pulled her in, hugging her until her face turned red.
"You know where to go," she said instead. Into her hair. "You know what to do."
"I always do," she said.
"Yes," Uiona said. "You always do."
She stepped back.
"Thank you," she said. Which was not sufficient and was the only word available.
Uiona straightened.
"Go," she said. "Your people are waiting."
Everything echoed as (Y/N) and Irtur descended into the darkness. (Y/N) kept the hood low over her face as they moved quickly through the lower maintenance levels. Irtur led them through narrow passages lit only by flickering strips of emergency light while Uiona’s final words still echoed painfully in her chest.
‘Your people are waiting.’
She no longer knew who her people were she thought to herself as they rounded another corner and stopped abruptly. Someone stood waiting in the darkness ahead.
She stepped back as the tall, dark silhouette stepped forward into the light.
Clvtorig.
His brown hair was longer now, tied roughly at the nape of his neck, his face thinner than before. There was dried blood staining one sleeve of his coat that did not appear to belong to him. (Y/N) let out a breath she had not realized she’d been holding.
“You’re alive.”
“Disappointing for several people,” Irtur replied dryly, causing Clvtorig to shoot him a look.
“(Y/N),” Clvtorig moved her hood from her face and cupped her cheeks with his gloved hands, “I can’t believe it’s you. It’s almost as if you are an illusion I cannot grasp.”
She placed her hand on his before his eyes drifted to the child in her arms.
“You took too long,” he said, hearing Irtur nearly trip over a crate.
“Yes,” Irtur agreed calmly. “It has been a very difficult month.”
Clvtorig looked back toward (Y/N).
“You ready to disappear, Your Majesty?”
“No,” she admitted softly.
“Good. Sensible people rarely are.”
There was no more time after that. The transport hangar sat buried beneath the lower industrial districts where freight ships came and went too often for anyone to remember faces. Steam drifted through the loading platforms while workers shouted over machinery in a dozen languages. Irtur approached the checkpoint first while she stayed slightly behind him holding (C/N) tightly beneath the cloak.
“Identification,” A bored security officer said as he barely looked up.
Irtur handed over three forged chain cards casually and the officer scanned them. He looked up at them before rescanning them, then he looked up again slowly.
Then back down at the IDs.
“These say you’re Twi’leks.”
Irtur blinked once.
“What are you,” he asked tiredly, “some type of racist?”
The officer raised an eyebrow but it only remained raised for half a second as a violent force suddenly exploded through the checkpoint and Irtur was hurled backward into a cargo container hard enough to dent the metal. (Y/N) screamed instinctively and stumbled backward as the lights above them began to flicker.
Clvtorig sensing the issue as one requiring him as a jedi, igniting his lightsaber which caused people to run and scream, trampling over (Y/N) and Irtur in the process.
An Inquisitor stepped from the shadows beyond the loading platform dressed in black armor beneath the crimson glow of an ignited spinning lightsaber. Her face was pale and severe beneath tattooed markings across her jawline.
“Well now,” the woman drawled coldly, “Ah knew yew rats would try somethin’ dramatic.”
When she spoke, her voice carried a sharp outer-rim accent curled around every word.
Stormtroopers flooded the platform instantly behind her with their blasters raised. Clvtorig swore softly. (Y/N)’s pulse turned to ice.
The Inquisitor’s yellow eyes settled immediately on him.
“Oh, Ah know yew,” she said with ugly amusement. “Little Jedi survivor playin’ revolutionary.”
Clvtorig stepped slightly in front of (Y/N) instinctively.
“I knew the Empire would send one of you eventually.”
“Aw, sweetheart,” she sneered, spinning the saber lazily through one hand, “yew flatter yourself.”
Suddenly, Clvtorig jumped at the inquisitor and the sound of their sabers clashing cracked through the hangar like thunder. The green and red blades moved impossibly fast through the darkness. The Inquisitor fought viciously, using the Force to tear loose crates and machinery, hurling them across the platform hard enough to shatter durasteel.
Clvtorig barely avoided one piece of debris before driving forward again.
“You should’ve stayed hidden!” she spat, locking blades with him.
“And miss this conversation?”
She snarled and slammed the Force outward violently. Clvtorig crashed across the floor. The Inquisitor turned instantly toward the crates where (Y/N) hid and Irtur. (C/N) who began to cry beneath the crate stirred under (Y/N)’s coat.
“Oh?” the woman smiled cruelly. “There yew are.”
(Y/N)’s blood froze.
The Inquisitor lifted one hand and Clvtorig drove his saber directly through her chest from behind. The red blade sputtered violently. For one stunned second the woman simply stared downward at the glowing weapon protruding through her armor. Then Clvtorig ripped it free. She collapsed hard against the platform floor.
Dead.
Silence followed.
Only smoke.
Burning circuitry.
And the sound of (C/N) crying softly against her shoulder. Clvtorig stood breathing heavily in the center of the ruined checkpoint while stormtrooper bodies lay scattered around him. Then slowly he turned toward her.
“Hiding strategy was excellent,” he said hoarsely.
(Y/N) stared at him in complete shock.
Irtur groaned somewhere behind a destroyed cargo container.
“I despise Jedi,” he muttered weakly from the floor.
They ran onto the transport before any more inquisitors could appear from the shadows. The transport doors slammed shut behind them just as blasterfire tore across the landing platform. “GO!” Irtur shouted from somewhere near the cockpit.
The ship lurched violently almost immediately, engines screaming as the pilot forced the transport upward through the industrial traffic lanes of lower Coruscant.
(Y/N) nearly lost her footing, but Clvtorig caught her arm before she could fall while (C/N) cried loudly against her shoulder, frightened by the noise and sudden movement. Outside the narrow viewport, red emergency lights flashed across the hangar district below as Imperial sirens began rising through the city. They had minutes at best before the Empire locked down the lower sectors. Irtur disappeared toward the cockpit muttering something furious about Inquisitors and concussions while the ship climbed sharply into the endless layers of Coruscant traffic. The cargo bay remained dimly lit, trembling softly from engine strain. For a while neither of them spoke. Only (C/N)’s crying filled the silence. (Y/N) finally managed to calm him enough for him to fall asleep again against her chest.
She sat heavily against one of the cargo crates.
Clvtorig remained standing nearby, one hand still resting against the wall from the turbulence. There was blood on his sleeve again. More now.
“You’re injured,” she said quietly.
“It’s superficial.”
“That usually means it’s serious.”
A faint smile touched his mouth briefly.
“You’ve spent too much time around soldiers.”
Too much time around Thrawn but neither of them said it aloud.
(Y/N) looked down at the child sleeping against her.
“Where will we go?”
Clvtorig leaned back against the wall opposite her.
“Batonn isn’t safe,” she continued before he could answer. “They’ll search it first. Every remaining house is compromised. Every route monitored. They will find me there.”
“They will,” he agreed quietly. “Nal Hutta. We will go there.”
“Nal Hutta?”
“It’s where I’ve been hiding.”
“The Hutt systems? I thought you were with the Sereth clan. ”
“The Empire avoids direct interference there whenever possible.” He shrugged slightly. “Too expensive. Too complicated. Too corrupt even for them.”
“I used to know exactly who I was,” she whispered.“And now look at me.”
“A fugitive?”
“A traitor.”
His expression hardened immediately.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You betrayed the Empire,” he corrected calmly. “That is not the same thing.”
“You sound like Irtur.”
“He’s usually right. Unfortunately.”
Slowly, she reached toward her hand, toward the Batonnese signet ring still resting there. The metal caught softly beneath the cargo lights. She stared at it for a long moment before pulling it free. Clvtorig immediately straightened slightly. (Y/N) held the ring in her palm for a second before extending it toward him.
“I’m not worthy of this anymore.”
He stepped closer but did not take the ring immediately.
“You still believe crowns are earned through purity,” he said softly.
“They should be.”
“No,” Clvtorig replied. “They’re earned through survival.”
“I slept beside the man who destroyed my world.”
“And still helped save what remained of it.”
“I loved him.” The confession fell into the cargo bay so quietly she almost thought the engines swallowed it, but Clvtorig heard it, of course he did. For a long moment he said nothing at all. Then finally he took her hand gently instead of the ring, closing her fingers back around it.
“That does not erase who you are,” his voice lowered now as he spoke in the dim light “The people remembered you negotiated for civilians when the Senate abandoned us. They remembered you walking through refugee camps yourself while Imperial officers hid behind escorts. And they remembered that even after marrying Thrawn… you never once stopped grieving Batonn. They know that you did it as a duty.”
Tears burned suddenly behind her eyes.
“I failed them.”
“No,” Clvtorig said firmly. This time he took the ring carefully from her trembling hand, then pressed it back into her palm once more. “You are more than worthy of this.”
She looked at him helplessly.
“You carry Batonn differently now,” he continued quietly. “Not as a palace. Not as titles. As memory.” His eyes lowered briefly toward (C/N) sleeping against her chest. “And memory survives longer than empires do.”
The words settled somewhere deep inside her. Clvtorig sat beside her finally, close enough that warmth lingered between them in the dim cargo hold. The ship continued carrying them farther and farther away from Coruscant.
Away from Thrawn.
Away from the life she had built accidentally beside the enemy she had once sworn to hate.
When an urgent schedule change forces a desperate prison break on Lothal,(Y/N) risks everything to rescue a rebel ally, all while keeping the ISB away. The mission takes a devastating toll, forcing her to commit a terrible act of betrayal that will forever shatter her secret life as Grand Admiral Thrawn’s wife.
Masterlist, Part 30
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The queen of Batonn’s shoes made a clanking sound on the floor that made her ears cringe. She walked through seats led by an attendant who stopped at a chair positioned correctly near the front, close enough to observe the military procession while still maintaining the hierarchy expected of the Grand Admiral’s household.
Lord Irtur was already seated but when (Y/N) approached, he stood and gently bowed to her and only sat once she sat. The parade had not yet begun. Below them, officers and local dignitaries gathered beneath white banners while military orchestras tuned instruments along the lower avenue.
“You look miserable,” Irtur murmured pleasantly.
“I am wearing propaganda.”
“Yes, but elegantly.”
She gave him a flat look.
“There’s been a problem,” he said in a whisper in Batonnese. “We need to move quickly now.”
“What kind of problem?”
“The transfer schedule changed.” His eyes remained forward on the avenue below as though discussing weather. “The prisoner will not remain in the detention sector through the end of the week as expected.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“That soon?”
“Yes.”
For several seconds she said nothing, forcing herself to keep her expression composed while officials continued filling the surrounding seats.
“Fine,” she said, “I will pretend to be ill tonight and avoid the dinner.”
“I thought you loved dinner parties.”
“I do,” she replied dryly. “Just not as Lady Thrawn.”
Irtur laughed silently, twirling the propaganda pamphlet in his hand that had been in his sea before he had sat. A group of local officials entered several rows below them then, accompanied by a young woman in pale blue formalwear. His eyes followed her briefly.
“Lothal may be an ugly planet,” he murmured thoughtfully, “but it appears to contain beautiful women.”
(Y/N) immediately smacked him lightly across the arm with the rolled ceremonial pamphlet.
“Oh, stars above,” she hissed. “Can you behave like a revolutionary for five minutes?”
“I am behaving like one,” he said calmly. “Historically speaking, revolutionaries are terrible.”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet beloved,” He looked again toward the governor’s daughter, “She smiled at me.”
“She smiled at everyone.”
“That is still encouraging.”
(Y/N) hit him again with the pamphlet.
This time he laughed quietly beneath his breath, but the humor faded quickly as the orchestra below them began playing the opening procession anthem while stormtrooper formations moved into precise lines along the avenue.
After a long moment, she exhaled slowly.
“Are we really doing this?” she asked softly. “All while the ISB is already circling us?”
“We crossed that threshold long ago.”
She watched officers gathering below, watched citizens wave small Imperial banners while holo-cameras drifted overhead preparing to capture the parade. Somewhere in this city Gret was imprisoned. Somewhere else Thrawn was likely preparing to stand before crowds beside the Empire he served with terrifying devotion.
“If this fails,” she whispered.
“It cannot fail.You once told me Batonn deserved witnesses. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“Then remember this also: empires survive because everyone eventually convinces themselves that resistance is too dangerous.”
“And what if they are right?” Her eyes lowered briefly toward the folded pamphlet in her hands.
“Then at least,” he said quietly, “someone still tried.”
A line of white-armored stormtroopers marched into the avenue first in perfect synchronization, followed by naval officers in dark uniforms edged with silver. The crowd erupted into applause almost immediately, citizens rising to their feet as banners unfurled from the surrounding towers. Then the Chimaera’s insignia appeared overhead across the massive holographic projectors suspended above the plaza an of course beside it, him. Even at a distance there was something unmistakable about him.
“You’re staring at him,” Irtur murmured.
“I’m thinking.”
“That is usually worse.”
Below them, Thrawn paused briefly near the central reviewing platform as governors and naval officials approached to greet him. Cameras turned toward him instantly. (Y/N)’s fingers tightened unconsciously around the ceremonial pamphlet in her lap.
“If something happens to me,” she said quietly.
“Do not.”
“If something happens,” she repeated softly, eyes still fixed on the parade below, “I want you to watch over my son.”
“No.”
Her head turned sharply toward him.
“No?”
“I will not sit here while you speak like someone preparing for martyrdom.”
“This is serious.”
“I am aware it is serious.”
The applause below them rose louder as Thrawn acknowledged one of the sector governors with a slight inclination of his head.
“He needs someone who will tell him who he is,” she continued quietly. “Not what the Empire says he is. Someone who remembers Batonn before all of this.”
“He will have you.”
“You cannot promise me that.”
“If the worst occurs,” he said softly, “I will protect him as though he were my own blood.”
Pain shot straight to her heart it hurt, she swallowed as though to wash it away. Below them, Thrawn finally lifted his eyes toward the viewing platform, towards her more specifically. Even across the distance, she felt the weight of his attention settle precisely onto her.
It filled her with shame that he was the man she loved, and the man she was actively betraying.
By the time the parade concluded, her face hurt from smiling. The military procession had lasted nearly three hours beneath banners and applause and endless speeches praising Imperial unity. Citizens lined the streets waving printed copies of the household portrait while officers discussed strategy and expansion beneath decorative lanterns meant to soften occupation into celebration.
Now the evening reception had begun inside one of the capital’s upper ceremonial halls.
Music drifted softly beneath crystal chandeliers while officers and dignitaries moved through clusters of conversation with glasses of champagne balanced elegantly between gloved fingers. White uniforms filled the room like an extension of the architecture itself.
(Y/N) stood near one of the towering windows with (c/n) resting against her shoulder, exhaustion beginning to settle deep into her bones. Her son had tolerated the day remarkably well. Too well, perhaps. Every officer who approached had smiled at him like he was proof of imperial success.
She hated how gently they spoke to him.
“Lady Thrawn,” a familiar voice said beside her. Thrawn had finally escaped whatever cluster of governors and admirals had trapped him for the better part of the last hour. The sharpness of formal command still clung to him.
Before anyone nearby could properly observe the moment, he leaned down and pressed a brief kiss against her cheek. The gesture was perfectly appropriate and somehow unbearably intimate anyway.
“You did very well today,” she told him quietly.
“As did you.”
(C/N) stirred lightly between them at the sound of his father’s voice. Immediately, Thrawn’s attention shifted downward.
Before either of them could continue, another officer approached through the crowd. It was Captain Pellaeon, she recognized him from her wedding. He had sent her a star chart as a gift and she had written him a card saying ‘thank you’, that was the last communication she had had with him. He had not changed, she had noted, as he was still grey and old.
“Grand Admiral,” he greeted immediately before inclining his head respectfully toward her. “Lady Thrawn.”
“Captain,” Thrawn replied evenly. “You have not yet formally met my son.”
“Well, he looks exactly like you sir,” Pellaeon said with surprising softness, “with his mother’s smile.”
(C/N) blinked up at the captain with the solemn concentration infants occasionally possessed, one tiny hand still curled stubbornly into the front of Thrawn’s white uniform. For a moment, Pellaeon seemed genuinely uncertain whether he was permitted to smile at the child and he did anyway.
“A dangerous combination,” he added dryly.
“The fleet survives many dangerous things,” Thrawn replied calmly.
“Yes, sir,” Pellaeon said. “Though I suspect this one may prove considerably more difficult.”
(Y/N) laughed softly.
Pellaeon’s eyes shifted briefly toward her then.
“I was pleased to hear the star chart reached you safely after the wedding, Lady Thrawn.”
“It did,” she said warmly. “I appreciated it very much.Thank you.”
“It was a chart of the outer rim,” Pellaeon explained to the child very seriously, as though (C/N) were capable of understanding. “Your father is deeply offended when people gift him things that are inaccurate.”
She allowed her son to play with his father’s rank for a moment before being sucked back into reality.
“I apologize,” she said quietly after a moment. “I do not believe I will remain much longer tonight.”
Thrawn’s eyes shifted immediately back toward her face.
“You are unwell?”
“Only tired,” she said carefully. “The day was… extensive.”
“Entirely understandable, my lady,” Pellaeon said as he immediately straightened.
Thrawn continued watching her for a moment longer than necessary, as though trying to determine whether exhaustion was truly all that troubled her.
The attention unsettled her, causing goosebumps to crawl upon her skin.
(C/N) made another small restless sound against her shoulder. She adjusted him carefully, brushing her lips once against the soft blue skin near his temple. The child’s eyes were already beginning to close.
“You should take him back to the residence,” Thrawn said.
“Yes,” she admitted softly. “I think I should.”
“You did well today,” he said again, more quietly this time.
“Thank you.”
“I will return after the reception concludes,” he said.
“I will wait up for you,” she said quietly.
Then he leaned down once more and pressed another brief kiss against her cheek, perfectly appropriate beneath the watching eyes of officers and governors nearby. But his hand lingered lightly at her waist for half a second too long.
In her quarters, she sat for a moment. Not for long, but long enough for it to feel long. She sat on the bed, while holding her son who was too young to ever understand what she was about to do, and who he was born to. She looked out the window, out to the fields of grey.
‘If we do not get to him, then they will get to us,’ she thought to herself.
Pressing a soft kiss to her son’s forehead, she inhaled his sweet, innocent scent, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. How had she allowed her heart to become so desperately tangled up in the enemy? Thrawn was a conqueror, a brilliant and ruthless architect of Imperial dominance, yet in the quiet dark of their quarters, he had become her sanctuary. His touch, his rare but profound tenderness, and the fierce, protective way he held their family had cracked her defenses until she was completely undone. Loving him was a beautiful tragedy.
And now, she was going to break him.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into her son's soft hair, the words meant entirely for the father who wasn't there to hear them. "I'm so sorry."
Gently, she laid the sleeping boy down in his crib, her hand lingering on his small blanket for one final, steadying heartbeat. When she pulled away, the warmth of her domestic life vanished.
“Uiona will be here soon,” she said, kissing him one last time as the door chimed three times. But three was not the number of Uiona, it was the number of Irtur.
She pressed the button to let him in, allowing the door to slide open.
He stepped inside wearing dark civilian clothing instead of formal diplomatic attire, the coat fitted close enough to conceal weapons beneath it.
“We need to move now,” he spoke in the darkness of the room.
“Has something changed?”
“Security rotation shifted earlier than expected. We have less time.”
Irtur reached slowly beneath his coat and withdrew a blaster wrapped in dark cloth. He stepped closer and placed the wrapped weapon carefully into her hands.
“This does not mean I enjoy bringing you.”
“You think I enjoy coming?”
“You look frightened,” Irtur observed quietly.
“I am frightened.”
“Good,” he said. “Fear keeps people alive.”
“If Thrawn discovers this tonight,” she said, “I do not know what survives afterward.”
“Then let us ensure he does not.”
Clad in garments of deepest shadow, she hoisted the blaster on her belt and they snuck into the corridor, being mindful of the cameras and roaming droids that operated at an hour where everyone was partying.
Together, they descended toward the lower transport hangars where the speeder waited in darkness. The speeder cut silently through the sleeping sectors of the capital while Fete Week celebrations continued somewhere behind them in distant bursts of light and music.
(Y/N) sat rigidly in the passenger seat with every patrol speeder making her jump and every glimpse of stormtroopers at intersections tightened something painfully inside her chest. Lothal at night felt different from Coruscant. Cleaner. Wider. The white stone buildings rose high beneath the moonlight while banners bearing Imperial insignia shifted softly in the wind between towers.
Irtur drove one handed with infuriating calm.
“You are gripping the seat hard enough to damage it,” he observed.
“I am considering throwing myself from the speeder.”
“That would complicate the evening.”
“You brought me to a prison break.”
“You volunteered.”
“I was emotional.”
“You are always emotional.”
She glared at him while Irtur smiled faintly and took another turn sharply enough to force her against the door.
“You drive like a criminal.”
“I am a criminal.”
As they journeyed onward, the fair face of the city began to alter, fading as they left behind the high and luminous citadels of the central lands. Here, the golden garlands of the Fete Week grew thin and ceased to shine. In their speeder, no joy was found, but only the cold, unblinking glare of stormtroopers who carefully walked in their formations.
Eventually the prison complex emerged in the distance.
(Y/N) watched as Irtur slowed the speeder several blocks away in a narrow maintenance sector partially hidden beneath elevated transit lines. He killed the engine and for one frightening moment neither of them moved.
“You can still remain here.”
“And let you get yourself shot alone? Absolutely not.”
A faint grin touched his mouth.
“There she is.”
Together they exited the speeder and moved quickly into the shadows between buildings. Her boots struck metal walkways softly while cold night air swept through the narrow industrial corridors. They reached the rear maintenance district bordering the outer prison infrastructure. Here the walls connected to adjoining service buildings and elevated energy conduits that stretched overhead between sectors. Irtur stopped beside one of the narrow maintenance towers and looked upward.
“We climb from here.”
(Y/N) stared up the side of the building. He began climbing before she could say anything, leaving her below him. Swearing quietly beneath her breath, she followed. The cold iron of the high tower bit deep into her hands as she clung to its steep flank, while far below, the dizzying abysses of the city stretched out like a grey and bottomless sea. With every cubit they won upward into the dark air, the tide of her heart thundered louder against her ribs.
“You are doing wonderfully,” he said.
“If I die, I am haunting you.”
“You would be unbearable as a ghost.”
They finally hauled themselves onto the rooftop breathing hard. From here the prison stood terrifyingly close. Searchlights swept rhythmically across adjoining rooftops while cameras rotated along mounted security rails. (Y/N) crouched immediately behind a ventilation structure. Irtur peered across the gap between buildings calmly.
“Yes, this part is unpleasant,” he noted.
A surveillance camera rotated slowly toward them. Without hesitation Irtur picked up a loose piece of metal piping from the rooftop and hurled it. The pipe struck the camera with a sharp crack. Sparks burst instantly and the lens went dark.
(Y/N) placed both her hands over her mouth and then turned sharply to Irtur.
“You cannot simply do that to Imperial surveillance equipment!”
“Come,” he whispered, already moving again. “Before someone notices.”
(Y/N) looked down once and immediately regretted it. Searchlights swept slowly across the prison walls below them. Every movement felt deafening. Every breath too loud. Irtur crouched near the edge of the rooftop and examined the adjoining structure carefully.
“There,” he said quietly, pointing toward a maintenance access panel partially concealed behind cooling conduits. “That connects to the secondary security corridors.”
“And how exactly do we reach it?”
“We climb.”
“I thought you hated climbing, remember Nar Shaddaa?”
“I do hate climbing,” Irtur informed her immediately. “I have always hated climbing. Revolutions should occur horizontally.”
They crossed the narrow service bridge one careful step at a time while cold wind moved violently between the buildings. The prison walls towered around them now, pale stone and dark steel lit harshly by rotating floodlights. Below them, patrol officers moved through lower courtyards completely unaware that two idiots were currently climbing into an Imperial detention complex above their heads.
(Y/N)’s hand was trembling again. They finally reached the maintenance structure attached directly to the prison exterior. Irtur eyed the vent system with immediate disgust.
“No.”
“What?” (Y/N) asked.
“I refuse.”
“You refuse what?” (Y/N) asked again.
“The vents.”
“You brought us to a prison break and your moral boundary is ventilation?”
“I am not crawling through industrial ductwork like some sort of underpaid spy holo character.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“I have dignity.”
She covered her mouth briefly to stop herself from laughing too loudly. He examined the wall again before visibly relaxing.
“Thank the gods,” he muttered. “We do not need to.”
He pointed toward a partially unsecured maintenance hatch built into the side of the structure beneath one of the energy relay systems.
“Service access.”
“That seems almost suspiciously convenient.”
“Most Imperial architecture is designed by people who assume nobody would be stupid enough to climb the exterior walls.”
“That feels insulting.”
“It should.”
Irtur knelt beside the hatch and produced a thin slicing tool from inside his coat. Sparks flickered softly as he bypassed the locking mechanism. (Y/N) kept watch nervously behind him, every distant footstep making her pulse spike.
“How much longer?” she whispered.
“Patience.”
A final spark burst from the panel, then the hatch slid open with a soft hiss. Darkness awaited them below. As cold recycled air drifted upward from the access shaft beneath them.Irtur peered down into it.
“Well,” he said quietly, “this feels deeply illegal.”
“You think?”
“Mm. It has atmosphere.”
Then they climbed down into the prison. The shaft opened into a narrow maintenance corridor lined with exposed piping and dim emergency lights. The moment her boots touched the floor, (Y/N) exhaled shakily.
“You see?” Irtur whispered behind her while resealing the hatch above them. “Much better than vents.”
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
At nearly the same hour, the rooms of the Imperial quarters remained wrapped in a deep and heavy silence.
Thrawn entered their private chambers without ceremony, the doors slid shut behind him with a muted hiss. The room was dim except for the pale city glow filtering through the long windows.
He expected to find her sleeping as she claimed she had retired to do, but instead the bed was empty.
His gaze moved across the room once before he stepped further inside.
“(Y/N)?”
But no answer was given, only silence, heavy as the emptiness that lay between the sheets.
His eyes settled briefly on the vanity where several jewelry pieces from the evening had been discarded carelessly beside a brush. Then he noticed the gown. The ceremonial dress she had worn during the parade and reception had been left draped across the chaise near the window, abandoned in visible haste rather than properly stored by attendants.
He approached it slowly.
For a moment he simply looked at it.
The silver embroidery caught the dim light softly. One sleeve had slipped partially onto the floor while the fabric still held the faint shape of where it had rested against her body hours earlier. Thrawn reached down and lifted part of the gown carefully between his fingers. The fabric was still warm, but not from her skin.
Thrawn looked briefly toward the windows. Then back toward the empty room. Slowly, he folded the gown neatly over his armchair instead of summoning attendants to collect it.
For the first time in that dark night, a shadow cold and unbidden crept into the hidden chambers of Thrawn’s heart, bringing with it a sudden and strange misgiving.
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
The corridor hummed softly with machinery. Somewhere deeper within the structure alarms chirped intermittently while detention systems cycled through their endless automated routines. Straightway, a great sickness fell upon her; the solid floor beneath her feet seemed to tilt and sway like a ship in an evil sea, and the heavy air choked her throat as if the very walls were leaning in to crush her. For a terrible shadow from years gone by rushed back to claim her mind. Fourteen long and bitter months she had spent entombed within just such an Imperial abyss, where the sun was forgotten and the days were measured only in torment. The phantom chains of that ancient captivity seemed to bind her limbs anew, and the iron walls whispered of old despair, threatening to drown her spirit in the dark waters of remembrance.
Irtur pulled the folded datapad from inside his coat and activated the dim projection of the prison schematics she had helped piece together from memory and stolen authorization glimpses. It pulled her out of her sweeping sickness when he called her name a few, bringing her back to the current.
“Aurek-17 detention wing,” he murmured softly into the gloom, “Northern interior block.”
“That’s three levels below us,” she said, her voice strained.
“Yes.”
“You neglected to mention that as well.”
“You were already unhappy.”
With wary steps they crept along the shadow-bound passageway, their steps falling as light as ash upon the iron floor. At every turning of the way, a sudden dread seized her body, and each distant murmur of speech smote her breast like a lightsaber. At one intersection they froze completely as two officers passed through the adjoining hall laughing quietly about Fete Week celebrations above the city. (Y/N)’s hand instinctively found the blaster beneath her cloak.
As the officers disappeared in their walk, she looked down at her left hand and only then did she notice its tremor.
“This was easier in my imagination,” she whispered once they continued moving.
“That is because your imagination is optimistic.”
“I am beginning to understand why rebellions fail.”
“Mostly logistics.”
They descended two maintenance stairwells successfully before reaching the first secured interior checkpoint. A narrow blast door blocked the corridor ahead while a security terminal glowed softly beside it.
The access panel was revealed, the code she had memorized.
“This is my part,” she said to Irtur, walking towards the panel. She used her right hand to punch in the code she had memorized only some hours ago.
For one terrible heartbeat, Lothal hung in an awful stillness, and nothing stirred. Then, with a sudden, sharp clang of iron:
‘ACCESS ACCEPTED.’
The great barrier of steel slid back, and the dark way lay open before them. They stepped in, the iron of her blaster was the only light. She looked around and saw cells lining the walls behind reinforced energy barriers. Some prisoners found slumber, while others watched silently from the shadows.
(Y/N) kept her hood lowered and her eyes forward until they came upon a familiar face down the hall, sleeping.
The young Lord Gret Virex sat inside beneath dim light, bruised heavily but alive.
For now.
Then the muffled voice of a Stormtrooper called…
“Hey!”
Two stormtroopers rounded the corner instantly, white armor catching the dim prison lights as their rifles lifted toward them. Everything happened too quickly afterward.
“Hands where we can…”
(Y/N) fired first with the recoil jolting her arm violently.
The blaster bolt struck the nearest trooper directly through the chestplate with a violent burst of sparks. The soldier collapsed backward against the wall hard enough to rattle the corridor.
The second trooper swung his rifle upward…
Irtur shot him. Inside the cell, Gret was now stared through the energy barrier at her with exhausted disbelief.
(Y/N) looked physically ill.
“If you wish to survive the next five minutes, I recommend emotionally processing it later,” Irtur said, moving to Gret’s cell panel, ready to fire again.
A warning light suddenly flashed red across the terminal.
Irtur cursed under his breath in Batonnese.
“What?”
“They initiated a secondary lock.”
“Oh, excellent.”
“Your sarcasm is becoming stressful.”
Behind them, one of the fallen troopers’ comm units crackled faintly to life.
“North corridor unit, report status.”
Then:
“North corridor unit, respond immediately.”
And suddenly the prison alarms erupted into a deafening sound. A fierce and bloody light flooded the long corridors in an instant, as though the very walls had run red with the wrath of the enemy.
Irtur swore under his breath while trying to override the final detention lock manually, sparks flickering from the terminal.
“It’s freezing the release sequence.”
“We do not have time for this,” (Y/N) snapped.
“No, really?”
Another voice crackled across the stormtrooper comlink somewhere down the corridor:
“Containment breach reported in Aurek sector. Respond immediately.”
Heavy footsteps echoed faintly in the distance as (Y/N)’s pulse hammered painfully in her throat.
“Move,” she said suddenly as she shoved past him toward the terminal, mind racing through the authorization patterns she had memorized days earlier.
Her trembling fingers moved across the controls.
“(Y/N)...”
“I know.”
The terminal flashed red once, then it became green.
‘ACCESS ACCEPTED.’
The energy field around Gret’s cell flickered violently before disappearing entirely with a sharp electrical hiss. The silence afterward lasted less than a second as it was time to now do what they had came to do.
“We need to be quick,” (Y/N) said to Irtur, for some reassurance.
Gret remained seated. He looked terrible with bruising darkening one side of his face while dried blood stained the collar of his prison uniform. His eyes remained sharp however as he watched them intensely.
Slowly, she raised the blaster toward him.
“Get up,” she ordered quietly.
Gret stared at her for a long moment, then he laughed.
“Oh,” Gret said proudly. “I already told them everything.”
“What?” (Y/N) questioned as she went completely still.
“They were very persuasive.”
“You’re lying,” she whispered.
“Am I?” His eyes moved over her dark clothing, “Look at you. You arrive in a Grand Admiral’s residence ship. Wrapped in Imperial silk. Carrying Imperial clearance codes. You are no queen.”
Irtur moved toward him but Gret continued over him now, years of bitterness spilling out violently, “No Veil of Batonn. No daughter of the palace. You are weak. You married them. You sleep beside them while our people disappear into prisons like this one. You bred with them.”
“Enough,” Irtur said dangerously, but Gret’s eyes remained fixed on her.
“You stand there wearing their power and pretend you still belong to Batonn?” His laugh was ugly now. “You are an Imperial wife playing at rebellion because guilt finally became inconvenient.”
The blaster shook visibly in her hand.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Oh, I know exactly what I’m saying.” Gret stepped closer slowly despite the weapon pointed at him. “And the saddest part?”
His voice was sharper now, filled with hate and demons.
“You are not even strong enough to shoot me.”
As the noise of the alarm surrounded them, she pressed her blaster to his heart and then pulled the trigger, sending him back. He was cast backward into the blood red gloom, slain by the hand of his Queen.
Then, beneath the roaring of the red alarms that filled the hall, she raised the blaster unto her own head. Her (s/c) fingers trembled upon the trigger, and a great darkness fell upon her mind.
‘What madness has fallen upon my mind? I have a son, I have (C/N) who needs me,’ she thought. Yet another thought, older and more bitter, rose up from the depths of her fourteen months of torment to answer it. ‘My spirit was slain long ago in the dept of the Empire. I am already dead, and Gret has sealed my fate.’
Then Irtur pointed the blaster to the wall, away from her head.
“(Y/N) are you mad?” He screamed at her. “We have to go.”
“I just executed him.”
“Yes.”
“I just…”
Heavy footsteps thundered somewhere nearby, causing Irtur to grab her hand.
“Move.”
And together they ran, breaking her paralysis. The detention corridor exploded into motion around them as security doors began sealing throughout the prison complex. Red emergency lights flashed overhead while stormtrooper voices barked through distorted intercom systems.
“Containment breach in Aurek sector!”
“Seal the north stairwell!”
“Find them!”
(Y/N)’s breathing came ragged now as they sprinted through the corridor. A blaster bolt suddenly struck the wall beside them. Stormtroopers rounded the far end of the corridor.
“There!”
Irtur fired instantly.
Red, white sparks burst from armored chestplates as one trooper collapsed. The second opened fire wildly down the hall. (Y/N) ducked instinctively behind the corner as a blast nearly struck her shoulder. Irtur grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward an adjoining maintenance corridor before more troops could reach them.
The prison had become chaos now.
They forced through a narrow service hall barely wide enough for both of them while emergency lighting flickered overhead. Behind them, voices grew louder.
“They’re heading toward the maintenance sectors!”
“They cannot reach the exterior!”
Irtur laughed once under his breath.
“That feels optimistic.”
“You are enjoying this entirely too much!”
“No, I’m panicking elegantly.”
They reached the maintenance shaft again breathless and sweating. Above them, the hatch still waited open toward the rooftops.
“Climb,” Irtur ordered.
Her muscles screamed in protest as she hauled herself upward onto the ladder. Below them, blaster fire erupted again somewhere nearby. They had seconds at most as (Y/N) reached the rooftop first and nearly collapsed against the cold surface while wind tore violently across the buildings. Lothal spread beneath them in glittering white lights completely unaware of the violence erupting inside the prison walls. Irtur climbed up after her and resealed the hatch immediately.
Then searchlights swept suddenly across the rooftops.
“Oh no.”
A security siren erupted from the tower above them.
“They’ve spotted movement!”
“Run,” Irtur said calmly.
“THAT IS YOUR PLAN?”
“It is currently the best available plan!”
They sprinted across the rooftops while floodlights chased behind them. Blaster fire cracked through the night air. One bolt struck the rooftop beside her feet hard enough to shower sparks upward. (Y/N) nearly slipped. Irtur caught her again instinctively. They crossed the service bridge at nearly a run now while alarms consumed the entire district behind them. Below, prison personnel flooded into the courtyards. Above, Lothal’s festival fireworks suddenly burst across the sky in brilliant white and gold.For one surreal moment the city celebrated while two fugitives fled murder beneath the light of Imperial banners. Irtur finally dragged her into a narrow alley between two closed market buildings several districts away from the prison perimeter.
She bent forward immediately, bracing both hands against the wall as she fought to breathe. Beads of sweat now dampened the stray tresses of her hair, which had fallen in disarray from the braided splendor ordered for the parade. The dark mantle of her disguise hid much from the eye, yet no longer did she bear any likeness to that tranquil Lady Thrawn from the parade.
Irtur moved toward the alley entrance and checked the street carefully before finally returning,“No patrols yet.”
“I did not want his last words about me to be true,” she admitted softly.
“He was dying,” Irtur said quietly. “Dying men often mistake pain for clarity.”
“I feel sick.”
“You should.”
In the far distance, the voices of children rose like a sweet and fleeting music, rejoicing in the high revels of the Fete Week.
“Listen to me carefully,” Irtur said as he crouched down in front of her. “The prison believes this was an extraction attempt gone wrong. Gret is dead. The troopers who saw us are dead. No one there should know it was you.”
“But Thrawn…”
“Yes,” Irtur interrupted softly. “Thrawn is the problem.”
“What if he looks at me and knows?”
“He already looks at you like he is solving something. We need to return before your absence becomes suspicious.”
As he pulled her upright, she looked once more toward the distant prison lights still flashing red against the night.
“How much,” she asked quietly, “do you think he told them?”
“He was held by the ISB for months,” he said carefully. “Interrogated repeatedly. Isolated.”
“That does not answer my question.”
“No,” he admitted. “It does not.”
“If he broke…” (Y/N) wrapped her arms around herself tightly as her voice faltered. “If he gave them names…”
“He likely did.”
“Then Batonn is already dead.”
“No.” Irtur stepped closer again, lowering his voice instinctively. “Listen to me. Information becomes less useful with time. Cells moved. Routes changed. People disappeared. We adapted after the arrests began.”
“And if they have more than that?”
“They probably do.”
“You are calm about this?”
“I am extraordinarily afraid,” he corrected. “I simply have practice carrying it.”
“I executed one of our own,” She said as they continued walking, now further into the city.
“You gave him the only death the Empire was not going to give him.”
After a long silence, (Y/N) spoke again.
“If Thrawn discovers this…”
“He will,” Irtur sighed quietly. “Perhaps not tonight. Perhaps not tomorrow. But men like him eventually notice missing pieces.”
“And when he does?”
“Then,” he said softly, “we pray whatever he feels for you remains stronger than whatever he feels for the Empire.”
(Y/N) and her fellow rebel collaborator, Irtur, secretly plot a prison extraction after discovering that the Empire is holding and interrogating a vital figure from their past. Thrawn confront her.
Masterlist, Part 29
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
On an unused terrace overlooking the vast plains of Lothal, stood Irtur overlooking the stone railing. The wind tugged gently at his coat and he did not turn when he heard footsteps behind him.
“You’re late,” he said without turning.
“You sound like Thrawn.”
“That is the cruelest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
(Y/N) came to stand next to him, overlooking the same view he had been admiring since sunrise. Her smile vanished after a few seconds and she looked down into the cracks that somehow found themselves deeply situated into imperial perfection.
“What happened?” Irtur asked her, his expression deepening.
“I found the authorization rotation,” She muttered while looking at the stormtroopers who were stationed below them.
“The actual codes?”
“No. But I found the detention sector designation and the rotation cycle structure.” She lowered her voice further. “Aurek-17. Temporary transfer block. Rotating authorization every six hours through northern command.”
“How?”
“I wandered into one of the naval administration offices after the reception dinner. The lieutenant running logistics would not stop complaining.”
“That sounds stupidly reckless. You heard anything else?”
“They think rebels may attempt extraction already.” She hesitated briefly. “Thrawn knows the prisoner matters.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice tightened. “Enough to increase security personally.”
“We must move quickly. Perhaps after Fete week after all these stupid animals leave.”
(Y/N) played with her signet ring as she looked onto the grey abyss.
“This will go wrong. It is the nature of things here,” she sighed as her left hand started trembling. “There are too many imperials in this place for it not to go wrong.”
“You are risking everything.”
“So are you.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “But I chose this before I had anything left to lose.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment after that. (Y/N) let the wind talk for them, to blow a song that danced between both of them.
“We retrieve the prisoner,” he said calmly. “Then we decide what survives afterward.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then at least Batonn will know someone still tried.”
Now she looked at him sharply.
“Who is this prisoner anyway?”
For a long moment, Irtur said nothing. He intensely watched the fields below, fields he complained about only days ago. Then he spoke in a way that made a terrible feeling boil in her stomach.
“I told Clvtorig to handle it months ago.”
“Handle what?”
“To move him.”
“Irtur, what are you saying?”
“I thought he succeeded.”
The silence stretched too long. She simply stared at him, for she didn’t know what to do.
“It’s Gret,” he said after a long time.
“What?”
“It’s Gret Virex.”
“No,” she said immediately. “No, I thought you moved him off world after the northern camp operation. You told me he was safe.”
“He was supposed to be.”
“Then how is he in an Imperial prison?” Her shock turned into anger as she nearly lashed at him. Her face turned into a deep crimson and she gripped onto the railings.
“Clvtorig arranged transport through the Kestro shipping corridor. Quiet route. Unregistered civilian carrier. Gret was meant to disappear into the Mid Rim under a false identity,” Irtur said as he leaned back slightly, exhausted suddenly in a way she rarely saw.
“What happened?”
“The carrier never made rendezvous.”
“The pilot sold them out?”
“No. Worse.There was an inspection sweep two systems early. Completely random according to Imperial records, which means it probably wasn’t random at all.”
“And Clvtorig?”
“He tried to extract him during transfer. Failed.”
She pressed a hand slowly against her forehead and screamed, “Kriff!”
“The ISB buried the arrest quietly at first,” Irtur continued. “No public detention. No announcement. Then six weeks later they manufactured a financial terrorism charge tied to the bombing on Batonn.”
“They pinned the bombing entirely on Gret?”
“Yes.”
“That makes no sense. Half the evidence was destroyed.”
“The Empire does not require evidence,” Irtur said coldly. “Only narrative.”
“The public thinks they finally captured the architect of the bombing. And now they’re keeping him alive because they think he’ll break. If the ISB has had him this long…”
“They are already interrogating him.”
“And you still think we can extract him?”
“No,” he said honestly, “We are going there to prevent the Empire from learning what he knows.”
“But why are they holding him here, on Lothal?”
“Closest prison I assume.”
“I wish I could hit you over the head with a staff right now.”
“Many women have said that to me before.”
Two droids came to the door, making the noise droids made when their machinery moved agonist hardened floors. Irtur turned to them then made a face of disgust, he always hated droids, just as (Y/N) did.
“Let us go into town. It is too dangerous to speak openly here.”
She glanced instinctively toward the door leading deeper into the residence where Aiocletian slept under Uiona’s watchful care.
“I cannot leave for long.”
“You will not.” He said. “But I would rather speak beneath an open sky than inside an Imperial residence arranged by Grand Admiral Thrawn.”
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
The speeder cut cleanly through the evening traffic lanes of Lothal’s capital. (Y/N) sat beside Irtur in silence at first, one hand gripping the edge of her cloak against the wind as the city unfolded around them in layers of white stone and glowing light.
Immaculate white towers loomed over them as she found herself gawking at architecture that moved too quickly.
White banners already hung between balconies for Fete Week. Strings of lights crossed the streets overhead in glowing arcs of gold and silver. Workers stood atop hovering platforms hanging imperial decorations that had been present on Coruscant.
As the speeder slowed near a plaza, she watched as children played around shops while stormtroopers stood idly at their post.
“In a few days,” she said softly as Irtur helped her from the speeder, “they’ll pass out my portrait in honour of the navy’s presence on this planet, and everyone will know my face.”
“They will,” Irtur said grimly.
She missed Batonn so badly she thought it might physically split her open.
The plaza around them glowed with warm evening light. Someone was roasting a native plant against a fire and selling them from his cart, the smell made her mouth water. It should have felt festive but instead it felt watched.
For a moment neither spoke.
“Do you even have blasters with you?” She asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“A concerning number.”
“Irtur,” She sighed as she stared at him in disbelief.
“What?”
“Do you have a weapons permit on Lothal?”
“No.”
She stopped walking outright.
“No?”
He looked genuinely confused by her reaction. “No.”
“You brought illegal weapons into an Imperial capital city?”
“Yes,” He answered as though it were obvious.
“You are unbelievable.”
“And you are suddenly very concerned with Imperial firearms regulations.”
“I am concerned because if they search you we both die.”
Irtur laughed softly under his breath as they continued down the crowded avenue.
“You care about this now?” he asked. “You, specifically?”
“Yes, because unlike you I currently have a child and a husband who commands an entire fleet.”
A group of children ran past them carrying little glowing lanterns shaped like Loth-cats. One nearly collided with her before hurrying away laughing. For a brief moment she watched them disappear into the crowd.
“How armed are you exactly?” She asked, stepping closer to him.
“One holdout blaster. One standard sidearm on me currently.Two knives.”
“You brought knives?”
“One knife is ceremonial.”
“That still leaves one illegal knife.”
“You are being extremely judgmental for a woman currently helping organize a prison assassination.”
They crossed deeper into the city together beneath the glowing festival lights while Imperial banners shifted overhead in the evening wind like something watching them move below.
By the time they returned toward the speeder platforms, the city had grown darker and brighter all at once. Music echoed from distant plazas while Imperial patrol speeders cut overhead through the traffic lanes.
“We should return,” (Y/N) said as she pulled her cloak tighter as Irtur unlocked the speeder. “It’s getting late.”
“We are not returning yet.”
“What?”
“I want to see the prison.”
Her head snapped toward him immediately, “You want to…what?”
“The detention complex.”
“No.”
“I need to understand the layout,” Irtur said as he climbed into the driver’s seat with infuriating calm.
“We are not driving to an Imperial prison complex at night.”
“Why not?”
“Because that is the sort of decision made by men shortly before execution.”
“We are only observing.”
“You are insane.”
“Frequently.”
“Irtur…”
“You worry too much.”
“And you do not worry enough.”
He glanced sideways at her with the faintest trace of amusement.
“Ugh, you are impossible,” she leaned against the door of the speeder, giving up.
“And yet remarkably charming.”
“You were more tolerable before the rebellion.”
“No I wasn’t.”
The city gradually changed around them as they moved farther away from its center. The decorative lights thinned first before the crowds did until the music chatter of the crowder did completely.
White civilian towers slowly gave way to grey Imperial structures reinforced with harsh floodlights and surveillance arrays. Security checkpoints appeared more frequently now, stormtroopers stationed at intersections beneath towering banners bearing the Imperial crest.
(Y/N)’s stomach tightened immediately.
“Irtur.”
“I see it.”
Ahead of them, the enormous walls of the detention center rose against the darkness. Even from this distance she could see the security towers.
“Turn around,” she said instantly.
“We’re too close now.”
“That is exactly why we should leave.
He slowed the speeder slightly near one of the outer service lanes, and then she noticed the blue security lights ignited behind them. An Imperial patrol vehicle descended sharply into the lane ahead, blocking the path forward. Stormtroopers emerged first before Agent Kallus did.
(Y/N) felt cold instantly.
Kallus approached the speeder with controlled professionalism, one hand resting near his weapon while two stormtroopers moved toward either side of the vehicle.
And Irtur had an illegal blaster under his coat, her pulse began hammering immediately.
“Agent Kallus,” she said smoothly. “We made a wrong turn. We will be on our way.”
Kallus looked from her to Irtur slowly.
“Lady Thrawn,” he said politely, which somehow made him seem more frightening. “This area is restricted after the twentieth hour.”
“Yes,” she said. “Which we realized somewhat late.”
One of the stormtroopers moved closer toward the rear storage compartment.
Irtur, unbelievably, smiled while (Y/N)’s stomach dropped.
“Very dramatic district you have here, Agent. I was beginning to think Lothal simply decorated everything in white stone and banners.”
“Ambassador Irtur,” Kallus said as his eyes shifted toward him.
“I assume this means we’ve stumbled somewhere unpleasant.”
“You’ve stumbled near a military detention complex.”
“Ah,” Irtur said pleasantly. “There it is.”
(Y/N) wanted to strangle him while the second stormtrooper circled slowly along the side of the speeder now, flashlight scanning the interior.
Kallus looked back toward her again.
“Does the Grand Admiral know you are out this evening?”
“I am a Senator on a diplomatic mission,” she said evenly, forcing herself not to tense. “I was unaware I required permission to observe the city.”
“No,” Kallus said calmly. “Though the Grand Admiral is generally informed of matters concerning household security.”
The stormtrooper near the rear compartment paused and for one horrifying second she thought he was about to open it.
“You know,” Irtur said conversationally to Kallus, with one arm leaning the steering controls, “where I come from, this is considered an extremely poor method of impressing a woman.”
(Y/N) nearly closed her eyes.
Kallus stared at him for a long moment.
“One wrong turn, Ambassador.”
His voice sharpened slightly.
“Do not make another.”
The stormtroopers stepped back and Kallus moved aside from the lane. (Y/N) nodded immediately and sunk into her seat and her hand stopped trembling.
“Of course, Agent,” Irtur inclined his head lazily. “An unforgettable evening.”
Kallus did not smile. The speeder lifted again almost immediately. Only once they had cleared three full blocks did she finally turn toward Irtur in absolute fury.
“You are never speaking again.”
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
By the time she returned to the residence, the halls had gone quiet and most of its staff had retired for the evening.
(Y/N) entered her room slowly, removing her prosthetic before running the water for a bath. She covered her body in the warm water, baptizing herself in the filtered, imperial water. When she was done, she tied on her white nightdress and sat at the vanity and sat down heavily before the mirror. For several seconds she simply stared at herself without moving.
She reached for her brush and made long strokes in a repetitive motion because it kept her breathing even.
Behind her, the door opened softly.
She saw his reflection before she turned. It was Thrawn, who entered wearing his white uniform. Though the upper collar had been loosened slightly in the rare concession to exhaustion he allowed himself in private.
His eyes settled on her immediately.
“You returned late.”
It was not accusation, at least not yet.
“Yes,” she said as she continued brushing her hair. “The city was crowded.”
Thrawn remained standing near the doorway a moment longer than necessary, watching her. There were times she thought his intelligence itself was the most dangerous thing about him. Not because he demanded answers, but because he noticed absences. Inconsistencies. The shape around a lie rather than the lie itself.
“You are unsettled.”
“No.”
“Something occurred.”
“We made a wrong turn near one of the military districts. Agent Kallus stopped us briefly.” She said as her grip tightened slightly on the brush before relaxing again.
“And?”
“And nothing.” She forced herself to sound amused. “Ambassador Irtur irritated him enormously and we were sent away.”
“That does sound probable.”
Thrawn stepped closer then, setting a datapad carefully atop the vanity beside her, causing her to look down. It was a proof of the Fête Week publication flyer. There was a heavy white print stock embossed with the Imperial crest in silver that decorated the publication with the words: ‘OUTER RIM STABILITY CELEBRATION WEEK’ gracing the top.
Below it were arranged portraits of senior Imperial leadership assigned throughout nearby sectors. The cold faces of Moffs, Admirals and Governors were printed on the publication along with theirs. Their portrait, for the whole galaxy to see.
Her stomach turned. Their child looked so small and happy while she looked so calm and content. Almost as though none of the galaxy’s horrors had touched them.
“It will be distributed throughout the capital during the military procession,” Thrawn said evenly. “As well as through sector publications.”
The Empire had turned them into architecture, a family constructed carefully enough to reassure entire systems. She hated how perfect and unbothered she looked, as though she were displayed next to her husband as some sort of reward.
Her hand started to tremor again, silently but knowingly.
“I will keep it with me, thank you,” (Y/N) replied, giving him a false smile that he could see right through.
Thrawn remained still for a moment behind her before speaking:
“You are afraid,” he said simply with his words landing harder than she expected them to. She set the brush down before he could see the slight worsening of the tremor in her hand. “You dislike being visible.”
“Yes,” she bit her lip “but I also dislike being owned.”
“The distinction matters to you.”
“It matters very much.”
She rose from the vanity then, needing movement suddenly. The flyer remained in her hand, the heavy Imperial paper bending slightly beneath her grip. Behind her, Thrawn remained silent long enough for her to know he was thinking carefully.
“You are displayed because you stabilize perception.”
“There are moments,” she said softly, “where the Empire feels less like a government and more like a machine that consumes meaning.”
“Regardless of the institution utilizing the portrait,” he said, “the child in this image is still your son.”
Her eyes lowered instinctively toward the flyer. Towards (c/n) who was still so small and skin so tender. His red eyes bright even in the carefully softened portrait lighting. One tiny blue hand curled against the fabric of her sleeve. Slowly, she reached out and touched the image with the tips of her fingers.Suddenly the fear beneath everything rose sharply enough to speak aloud.
“What happens to him,” she asked, “when he comes of age?”
“He will be educated appropriately,” Thrawn’s expression did not change as he spoke.
“That sounds Imperial.”
“It is Imperial.”
“Will they expect him to serve?”
“Yes.”
“The Navy?”
“If he is capable.”
“And if he does not want that?”
“Choice will always exist within limitations.”
Her fingers tightened against the portrait.
“I do not wish this for him,” she began to say after being silent for some moment, as though time would pass but would leave her in the present “It frightens me.”
Thrawn stepped closer behind her. His hand settled carefully at her waist, slow enough that she could have stepped away if she wished. She did not.
“You believe the Empire will take him from you.”
“I believe power consumes everything eventually.”
“And yet you remain beside it.”
“I have no choice.”
“No,” he said “Neither of us were given many.”
The room fell still again. His hand remained at her waist, steady and warm through the fabric of her gown.Then his voice changed slightly, more precise.
“You must also exercise greater caution moving forward.”
“With what?”
“I do not know what occurred on Nar Shaddaa,” he said evenly, “but whatever involvement you had there attracted attention.”
She looked at her finger, at the absence of her finger.
“I was under the impression my activities there were thoroughly documented through the Senate,” she replied carefully.
“Your official activities were,” His fingers tightened once at her waist before relaxing again. “You are no longer positioned to survive scrutiny as easily as before. You are now publicly associated with my household. More importantly, you are the mother of my son.”
“You speak as though I’ve become fragile,” she said quietly.
“No,” he corrected. “Valuable.”
“You should not protect me,” she whispered.
“And yet I continue doing so.”
His hand slid slowly up her back, drawing her closer against him. She felt him exhale softly against her mouth, controlled even now, though she had begun to recognize the small failures in that control.
“You are trembling again,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“Fear?”
She looked at him for a long moment.
“Yes,” she whispered.
But not the kind he assumed.
She looked at him for a long moment before leaning forward and kissing him again with guilt following immediately after. Affection and deception intertwined so tightly she could no longer separate them cleanly inside herself. She wondered right now, in this very moment, if he could feel it somehow. Her apology, laid in with every touch.
But if he did, he said nothing.
He pulled away gently and caressed her hair.
“You are troubled tonight,” he murmured.
“I am always troubled.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “But not always like this.”
Her fingers tightened slightly against the front of his uniform.
“I think that somewhere in another life we could have been happy without all of this.”
“Perhaps,” he said with an answer that hurt more than disagreement would have.
She kissed him more harshly this time, leading him to sit on the grey sofa as it was closer than the bed was. She could only look at him as she breathed in the air of the room which was thick from the suffocating remnants of their discussion.
She felt like a traitor to her own morals, a collaborator in her own bed. And yet, the guilt only served to heighten the arousal, turning the shame into a sharp, electric current that pooled between her thighs. It was so wrong that it felt inevitable.
Thrawn’s hand slid into her hair, tilting her head back to expose the line of her throat. He kissed her sensitive skin and spoke into her tenderness.
"I can feel your conflict, your resentment."
"Yes," she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"And yet," he whispered, his hand sliding down to grip her thigh, pulling her leg high over his hip, "you continue moving towards me despite it."
Thrawn didn't wait for an answer. He reached down, his fingers hooking into the lace of her undergarments and ripping them aside with a single, decisive tug.
He then shifted himself as he slid down his trousers to free himself, not allowing her anytime to adjust. He guided himself to her entrance as she laid on her back, awaiting him, wanting him. As he pushed inside her in one deep, unrelenting thrust, she let out a strangled cry.
“You hate what I represent,” he said quietly, one hand steady at her waist. “And still you came back to me.”
She tried to look away, but his fingers tilted her chin back toward him.
“Do you know what fascinates me?” he murmured. “Not your anger. Anger is predictable. It’s that you continue choosing proximity despite it.”
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“The Empire took your world,” he said. “And yet here you are, in my quarters, wearing my name.”
“You want me to feel guilty?”
“No,” he replied evenly. “I want you to examine why guilt has failed to stop you.”
He used his free hand to grip onto her neck, forcing her to look at him while he continued thrusting into her, forcing her to surrender.
“Look at me!” he ordered, his red eyes the only light in the room. “Yet I find myself wanting to help you. There is something about you that I am drawn to.”
The sensation was overwhelming, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer to her. With every wet slide of his shaft, she felt her of him betrayal deepen. The wrongness of it was an aphrodisiac, a dark fuel that made her cling around him in desperate, rhythmic pulses.
The sofa creaked under their combined weight. He continued to claim her, slamming into her harshly, making her arch her back to adjust to him.
He gripped her waist, his fingers bruising her skin, and began to drive into her with primal power.
(Y/N) felt his orgasm building as he quickened his pace. With a final, deep plunge that seemed to pin her to the cushions, he let out a low, guttural roar, his body stiffening as he released inside her. He poured his seed into her. They remained locked together, chests heaving, sweat-slicked skin clinging. The silence returned, but it was different now, more knowing and more hurting.
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
Morning greeted her as it always did to those who did not belong. The sun arose unhurried behind the eastern crests, lifting a pale veil of mist from the shoulders of the grey fields, yet it brought little comfort to her heart. To the dwellers of Lothal, the dawn was a token of enduring life; but to a woman far from the hearths of her own planet, it was merely the turning of a page in an endless book of what seemed to be confinement.
(Y/N) stood before the mirror while attendants finished the final arrangements of her clothing. For the tenth time in ten minutes she adjusted the rings on her fingers.
“You have already fixed those nine times,” Uiona observed.
“I know.”
“You are nervous.”
“Yes.”
A soft chime sounded at the door as footsteps that were all too familiar to her were heard entering the room. Her pulse tightened as she turned to face Thrawn. He was in his white uniform with his medals aligned perfectly, and his uniform as crisp as the morning.
Neither of them spoke for a moment, as she allowed for his eyes to roam over her.
“You are late,” he said finally.
Uiona bowed her head once and quietly withdrew from the room with the attendants, leaving them alone.
“I am exactly on time.”
“You are three minutes behind schedule.”
“That still qualifies as on time for most species.”
“The Empire is not most species.”
“No,” she said. “I’ve noticed.”
His gaze moved over her again with slow precision. Not improperly, but in the way he allowed his attention to focus on a specific thing. The gown had been chosen carefully for the occasion. It was a political symbol that portrayed her as.
The wife of a Grand Admiral.
The surviving queen of Batonn.
The mother of the Empire’s newest carefully crafted image.
“You must remain composed today,” he said calmly. “There will be considerable observation.”
“And if I fail at being the perfect Imperial wife?”
Thrawn reached toward her then, adjusting one of the silver fastenings near her shoulder with careful fingers.
“You will not.”
His hand paused briefly against the fabric near her collarbone before falling away again while the certainty in his voice unsettled her.
He came to stand in front of her, with his eyes trailing to her lips. The air between them shifted into something more warm.
“You should not look at me like that before a public ceremony,” (Y/N) murmured.
“How am I looking at you?”
“As though you remember I am your wife and not merely useful to the Empire.”
“You are both,” he said.
She looked down briefly, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her gloves just to steady herself.
“You should get going or you will be late, Grand Admiral.”
“You are the only interruption I do not resent.”
Her breath caught slightly.
“You are making this difficult.”
“I disagree,” he said, using his thumb to brush her cheekbone lightly. Then he leaned down and kissed her. When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against hers. “You will do well today,” he said softly.
“So will you.”
Then the Grand Admiral straightened once more into military perfection, composure sliding back over him like armor.
“The procession begins in eleven minutes,” he said.
(Y/N) navigates the suffocating performative domesticity of an Imperial portrait session while simultaneously conspiring against her husband. After a night of intimacy and guilt, she risks everything to secure the location of a high value prisoner for the rebellion and Batonn.
Masterlist, Part 28
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She stood near the mirror while one of the attendants finished fastening the deep blue outer layer of her gown. Uiona announced Irtur before he fully entered her room.
“Ambassador Irtur to see you, Your Majesty.”
Irtur stepped inside still wearing a coat from the morning cold outside the administrative district. His eyes moved over her once, then narrowed slightly with immediate suspicion.
“Well,” he said slowly. “Something certainly happened during training."
“I have no idea what you mean, ” (Y/N) said, nearly dropping the clasp she was fastening.
“That is a lie of catastrophic quality.”
One of the attendants immediately found an excuse to leave the room. Irtur watched her expression for another second and then looked genuinely delighted.
“Very well.” He lifted both hands in surrender though he was still visibly enjoying himself far too much. Then, slowly, the amusement faded from his face. “There is another matter. I’ll do it.”
“What?”
“Gret.” His voice remained calm now. Steady. “I will handle it myself.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You should not have to carry that.”
“And neither should you.”
(Y/N) looked away towards her son’s crib, the words landing and settling in the room. Lord Virex and his lady will lose a son due to the bombing that was caused because of them. He will die to keep the secret, a secret that allowed many people to become liberated from the northern territories mining camp.
“He trusted us,” she whispered.
“He was already dead the moment the ISB began circling him.” Irtur removed his coat as he spoke. “There are some burdens a kingdom places upon its servants whether they wish to bear them or not. Better that the blade fall from the hand of someone who loved Batonn than from the hands of the Empire as my father would’ve said.”
“I keep thinking,” she admitted softly, “that if I had not brought him into this…”
“We gave him purpose,” Irtur interrupted gently. “And dignity. There are worse ends than dying in service to your people.”
“That sounds very noble when you say it.”
“It is easier to speak nobly about tragedy before it belongs to you personally.”
“When it is done,” she said, “I will arrange for his funeral rites to be held in the palace on Batonn.”
Irtur looked at her carefully, “The old palace?”
“Yes, of course.”
“The Imperials will object.”
“They object to everything.”
A faint smile touched his face, “That they do.”
“The young lord Gret deserves to go home,” she walked over to her child and gave him her finger to latch onto. “It is the least I can give him now.”
Irtur bowed his head once in quiet agreement.
“Another thing if I may, (Y/N).”
“Yes, go on.”
Irtur glanced once toward the closed doors before speaking lower, “There is a prisoner being held on Lothal.”
Her expression hardened instantly, “What kind of prisoner?”
“The important kind.”
“Who are they?”
“A Batonnese intelligence courier,” he said quietly. “Captured three months ago near the Kestro mining routes. Clvtorig believes the prisoner has information regarding several hidden imperial cells operating in the northern territories.”
“And they’re here? On Lothal?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because people still loyal to Batonn continue risking their lives to tell us things and he was working with the rebels here.”
“Where are they being held?”
“A temporary detention site near the Imperial district.”
“This is very dangerous and there are stormtroopers everywhere on this planet.”
“Yes.”
“You are not going alone.”
“I am.”
“You could be killed.”
“So could the prisoner.”
“Marc…”
“No.” His voice sharpened for the first time. “You have a child now. You are the surviving monarch of Batonn and the wife of a Grand Admiral. If you are caught anywhere near an Imperial detention facility the consequences will extend far beyond your own life.”
“And if you are caught?”
“I am easier to sacrifice.”
“That is not true.”
“It is practical.”
“I am coming with you.”
“No,” he said firmly. “Absolutely not.”
“I am the only person you can trust completely here.”
His expression shifted slightly because it was true. On Lothal every corridor belonged to the Empire. Every servant reported upward. Every official smile concealed loyalty to someone else.
But her…
She was the one variable neither side fully understood anymore.
“That,” he said quietly, “may be the most tragic sentence you have ever spoken.”
Before she could answer she heard her name called.
“(Y/N),” Uiona announced carefully, walking back into the room, “the portrait staff has now sent four separate inquiries regarding your arrival time.”
Irtur glanced toward the clock.
“You are late.”
“Yes, thank you, I gathered that.”
“The Empire will collapse without its family portrait.”
“Oh, be merciful.”
“I have never once been accused of mercy.”
Irtur looked toward the doorway as one of her attendants hurried past outside carrying folded garments and a datapad as a droid followed behind her, “What is your attendant’s name?”
“Which one?”
“The dark-haired one,” he said. “Very pretty. Terrifying posture. Looks like she could stab a man in a diplomatic hallway.”
“That describes half the women employed by my household.”
“The one who glared at me yesterday.”
“Oh, absolutely not.”
“I merely asked her a question.”
“You flirted with her.”
“I admired her professionalism.”
(Y/N) turned toward the door before he could continue.
“I am late for my portrait.”
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
The portrait chamber had been assembled inside one of the upper administrative wings of the Lothal governor’s residence. Everything about it was aggressively Imperial in the way only carefully curated things could be. Pale grey walls. Precise lighting arrays. Dark polished flooring that reflected the glow of the chandeliers overhead.
A backdrop bearing the Imperial crest stood behind the raised platform where the portraits would be taken.
(Y/N) arrived twelve minutes late.
Not accidentally.
The attendant waiting outside the chamber looked visibly relieved when she finally appeared carrying (C/N) against her shoulder while Uiona followed behind with the child’s things.
“Your Majesty,” the attendant said carefully, “the Grand Admiral has already arrived.”
“I assumed as much.”
When the doors opened, conversation inside the chamber stopped almost immediately.
Military officers. Administrative personnel. The portrait artist. Two aides adjusting lighting equipment near the platform.
And Thrawn standing near the center of the room in full white uniform.
“You are late,” he said calmly.
“Eleven now,” he corrected after glancing briefly toward the wall’s clock.
She shifted (C/N) slightly higher against her shoulder. “I was under the impression the Empire possessed patience.”
“The Empire possesses schedules.”
(Y/N) walked further into the room slowly, taking in the setup properly now. It was worse than she expected. The entire arrangement had the carefully polished feeling of state imagery, the kind distributed through HoloNet publications during holidays to reassure citizens that the military leadership possessed families and humanity and ordinary domestic lives.
The artist approached nervously. “Lady Thrawn, if we could begin with the arrangement…”
(C/N) made a soft sound against her shoulder. Immediately, several people in the room looked at him. The subtle fascination in the faces of officers trying not to stare too openly at the blue skinned infant in the queen of Batonn’s arms.
Thrawn noticed the shift in her expression almost immediately, “Begin,” he said to the room.
Everyone moved at once.
The arrangement placed her in the center while Thrawn stood beside her with one hand resting against her waist. (C/N) remained in her arms initially, wrapped in dark blue fabric selected specifically to complement the color palette of the room.
The artist adjusted the angle of the lighting.
“Closer together, please.”
(Y/N) remained perfectly still.
Then she felt Thrawn’s hand settle lightly against her waist. It wasn’t a possessive feeling, but more of a positional one. The sort of touch expected in an official portrait of a high ranking Imperial family. Yet the warmth of it still unsettled her.
“Lift your chin slightly,” the artist instructed and she obeyed automatically.
The child stared directly at the camera equipment with startling intensity.
“He is extraordinarily focused,” the artist said nervously.
“Yes,” Thrawn replied simply.
The artist hesitated. “Would you prefer a softer expression from the child in the final selection, Grand Admiral?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“This portrait is intended to represent my household accurately.”
By the final sequence (C/N) had grown tired and restless. She took him back instinctively, settling him against her chest while he slowly calmed.
“Hold there,” the artist said suddenly.
Aiocletian’s small hand remained curled loosely against the fabric near her collar while Thrawn stood beside her.The room fell quieter because for one fractional second the performance disappeared. The artist lowered the camera slightly.
“Yes,” he said softly. “That one.”
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
On the dark sheets of her bed, she dreamed of Batonn the way people dreamed of dead things.
Summer sunlight spilled across the white palace corridors while banners snapped softly in the warm wind. She was fourteen again, barefoot against cool stone, carrying her shoes in one hand while trying unsuccessfully not to laugh.
Her father walked beside her through the gallery halls.
Not the king.
Just her father.
He wore no ceremonial robes today, only the formal attire of the old court with the sleeves rolled carelessly halfway up his forearms because he had been working rather than receiving dignitaries. He was younger than she remembered him at the end. Healthier. Untouched by Imperial negotiations and military occupation and the slow exhaustion that had hollowed him out during the final years.
For a moment the dream became painful in the specific way dreams sometimes did, because somewhere inside herself she realized she was remembering something real.
Suddenly she was standing alone in the burned remains of Paeragosto City with smoke curling black into the sky while the palace crumbled somewhere far behind her.
Her father was gone.
In his place stood the enormous Imperial portrait banners hanging from Coruscant buildings during Fête Week. Thrawn’s face. Her own. (C/N) held between them like some holy offering to the machinery of Empire.
Symbol.
The word echoed violently through the dream.
Then another voice.
Real this time.
“(Y/N).”
Her eyes opened sharply and she rose herself from the bed.
The room remained dim except for the low bedside lighting and the glow from the city beyond the tall windows. She had fallen asleep atop the blankets still wearing part of her evening clothing. Her hair remained loose around her shoulders.
And Thrawn stood near the foot of the bed with a portfolio case in his hands.
“You were dreaming,” he observed quietly.
“What time is it?”
“Late.”
Helpful as always.
“The portraits,” (Y/N) said softly.
“Yes.”
He crossed the room and set the case carefully atop the bed beside her before opening it with precise movements. Inside rested several large printed proofs from the day’s session.
She looked at the first one in silence.
The seated portrait.
Thrawn standing beside her chair in full white uniform while (C/N) rested in her arms beneath the soft lighting of the governor’s residence. The Imperial crest behind them. Her blue gown blended almost seamlessly against the white and silver composition.
The Empire would love it.
She hated that part of her that loved it too. Her fingers moved carefully to the second portrait.
This one was near the windows overlooking Lothal’s skyline. (C/N) slept against her shoulder while Thrawn looked toward her instead of the camera. The next photo, the third one, showed Thrawn holding the child while (C/N) reached upward toward the white collar of his uniform.
And the final portrait…
Their son was half asleep between them while Thrawn’s hand rested against the center of her back and she looked downward toward the child instead of the camera. No perfect posture. No carefully arranged expression.
It looked almost frighteningly intimate.
“This one was not selected for distribution,” Thrawn said.
“No,” she said quietly. “I imagine not.”
Her thumb brushed lightly across the edge of the image.
“Why did you bring them yourself?”
“Because I believed you would want to see them before the Imperial office altered them for publication.”
“Altered?”
“Minor corrections,” he said calmly. “Lighting adjustments. Composition refinement. Removal of visible fatigue.”
“They’re editing exhaustion out of the portrait?”
“Yes.”
“That feels symbolic.”
“It is.”
Outside the windows, Lothal’s night glowed gold beneath the darkness while the Empire slept around them. And slowly, without fully realizing she was doing it, she leaned into him when he sat beside her on the bed. Thrawn did not react visibly to the movement, though she felt the slight adjustment of his posture to accommodate her weight against his shoulder. The portraits remained spread across the blankets between them.
“Did you have a family on your homeworld?”
She felt him still beside her, though not dramatically, just enough for her to notice.
“Yes,” he said after a moment. The answer surprised her slightly. Not because she thought him incapable of family, but because he so rarely spoke about himself.
“What were they like?”
“My father served within the Ascendancy,” he said finally. “Administrative command rather than direct tactical deployment. My mother belonged to one of the lesser ruling families attached to our region.”
“You don’t talk about them often.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because the Ascendancy values function over sentiment,” he said at last. “Personal attachment is not considered irrelevant, but it is rarely prioritized publicly. Particularly within military structures.”
“And were there…” She hesitated slightly. “Were there other women before me?”
The question escaped before she fully intended to ask it. Thrawn looked at her.
“There were political considerations,” he said. “Potential alliances discussed between families. None progressed significantly.”
“That is an extremely evasive answer.”
“It is an accurate one.”
“Did you love any of them?”
“No.”
Her fingers tightened unconsciously around the edge of one of the portraits.
“And me?” she asked softly before she could stop herself.
The room went very still. He looked down briefly toward the portrait resting between them. The candid one. Her leaning unconsciously toward him while (C/N) slept between them.
When he answered, his voice was quieter than before.
“When I first arrived in the Empire,” he said slowly, “I considered attachment a structural weakness. Useful in others. Dangerous in myself. The Ascendancy teaches discipline very early. Duty before personal desire. Clarity before sentiment. We are taught that emotional attachment compromises judgment. In many cases, this is correct.”
“And yet you married me.”
“The arrangement was politically advantageous,” he said automatically.
She gave him a look. A rare flicker of something almost embarrassed crossed his expression.
“At the beginning,” he amended.
“And now?” she asked.
“Now,” he said, “your absence alters the atmosphere of every room I enter.”
Something painful moved through her chest. She leaned forward slowly then and kissed him to hide her pain. His hand moved automatically to the side of her face, thumb brushing lightly against her cheek as he returned it with the same restrained intensity he seemed to bring to everything. When she pulled back slightly, their foreheads rested together for a moment in the dim light.
“You were not supposed to become personally significant.”
(Y/N) looked down at the portrait again because it was easier than looking directly at him.
“And yet?” she asked softly.
“And yet,” he said, “you did.”
There were moments with him that frightened her more than the Empire itself. Not because they were cruel, but because they were sincere.
“You make it sound accidental.”
“In part, it was.” His eyes lifted to hers again. “I understood the political value of the arrangement. I understood the Emperor’s intentions. I understood your intelligence, your usefulness, your symbolic importance.” A pause. “I did not anticipate attachment.”
“You are very dangerous to me,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“You should not say things like that to me,” she whispered.
“And why is that?”
“Because eventually I may start believing you.”
A faint shift touched the corner of his mouth at that, though his expression remained mostly unreadable.
“I suspect,” he said carefully, “that possibility passed some time ago.”
She leaned forward again and kissed him again, slower this time. His hand slid carefully to the back of her neck as he returned it with that same restrained intensity she had come to associate with him. Everything about Thrawn felt deliberate, even tenderness.
When they finally parted, he brushed his fingers against her jaw and spoke gently, “I leave again in ten days.”
“You always leave.”
“Yes.”
“But you come back.”
His gaze held hers steadily.
“Yes,” he said again, softer this time. “I do.”
But (Y/N) didn't want to talk about the ten days. She didn't want to think about the void he would leave in the room or the coldness of the sheets when he was gone. She wanted the weight of him, the reality of him, to anchor her to the present.
She shifted, her body sliding further onto the mattress, pulling him with her. Thrawn let her move him, following her fluidly. He braced himself on his elbows to avoid crushing her. His red eyes were glowing, searching her face with a clinical intensity that slowly melted into raw, unfiltered hunger.
"You are thinking too much," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against her gleaming (s/c) skin.
"I'm thinking about how much I hate that you leave," she whispered, her hands sliding up his chest, feeling the powerful thrum of his heart.
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he captured her lips in a kiss while his hand slid from her neck down to the curve of her waist, gripping her hip with a firmness that bordered on bruising.
He kissed her as if he were trying to memorize the very essence of her, as though he was attempting to burn her image in her mind to hold her in the coming weeks of his campaign.
(Y/N) groaned into his mouth and allowed her legs to wide around his waist, pulling him wantingly against her. Their clothing was a wall, a barrier, she needed the barrier gone.
Her hand found the opening of his trousers, pulling them down as he did with her own. Her hand felt warm against the cool of his skin and she traced his body with the fingers she still had.
She arched her back as he broke the kiss to trail his lips down her throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her collarbone. "I do not wish to be disciplined tonight," she whispered against his skin.
“Then no discipline tonight,” he murmured softly against her. “Only honesty.”
She laid beneath him, naked and vulnerable under the dim light. His gaze swept over her body, at the rise and fall of her breasts, the curve of her stomach, the invitation of her thighs. The look was possessive, a strategist marking his most prized territory.
His hand slid down, fingers brushing against the damp folds of her core. She gasped, her hips bucking instinctively. He watched her face, observing the way her eyes fluttered and her breath hitched.
He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his shaft rubbing against her slickness, teasing her. Then, with one deliberate thrust, he buried himself inside her.
(Y/N) tossed her head against the pillows. He filled her, allowing her walls to close against him as though she were inviting him further into her. His eyes closed for a second, taking in her warmth before opening them again and thrusting in and out of her.
As his member filled her with every rhythmic thrust, she closed her eyes and found herself beneath the softness of his voice and the carefulness of his touch, living the unbearable truth of what she was doing to him.
She was lying to him, using the access his name gave her. Sitting in meetings beside Irtur discussing prisons and routes and rebels while Thrawn stood between her and the full violence of the Empire without fully realizing she was helping undermine it from inside his own household.
Guilt moved through her suddenly, sharp enough to ache.
When she came into his office with a list of requests before they married, all he had requested of her was honesty. And yet she couldn’t give it to him. Not even now as they laid as husband and wife.
Maybe in another life this could have been different. A quieter galaxy. A kinder version of history. No Empire. No Batonn burning beneath Imperial machinery. No arranged marriage turned into something dangerous and real by accident. But there was only this life. Only this room. This war. The conqueror holding her like she was something precious rather than politically convenient.
(Y/N) opened her eyes again and clung to him, her nails digging into the muscles of his back, her voice breaking into fragmented moans. He gripped her thighs, pinning them back towards the sheets and began to thrust faster into her. The friction was intense, as though he knew she would betray him and didn’t care. He was no longer the strategist; he was a man claiming his wife, his movements raw and desperate.
She squeezed him tight, her pussy walls pulsing in rhythmic contractions around his shaft. She screamed his name, her body shaking violently as he peaked inside of her, filling her up with his release. He throbbed inside of her as he emptied every drop of his seed into her womb.
For a long time, neither of them spoke, the only sound was the synchronization of two hearts slowing down. Thrawn shifted slightly, kissing her forehead.
(Y/N) watched silently as he sat up at the edge of the bed. Even now, after everything between them, he moved with the same composed precision. He reached for his uniform blouse from the chair nearby and began fastening it again beneath the dim gold light of the room. The sight hurt unexpectedly.
She pulled the blanket higher around herself.
“Will you sleep here tonight?” she asked softly.
Thrawn’s hands paused briefly at one of the clasps before continuing.
“No,” he said quietly. “There are operational matters requiring review before morning.”
She looked away toward the darkened ceiling.
“Of course there are,” (Y/N) sighed.
He crossed back toward the bed once more before leaving, one hand brushing lightly against her hair.
“You should sleep,” he said.
“I doubt I will.”
“I will return before morning if I am able.”
It was not a promise and she had learned this from the very beginning.
And after he disappeared into the adjoining office and the doors slid shut behind him, (Y/N) remained alone in the dim room.
She fell asleep for some time before waking up again. The room was darker this time and quieter. She rose from the bed and crossed silently through the darkened sitting room.
From the bedroom doorway, (Y/N) could see the thin line of light beneath the office doors where Thrawn had disappeared nearly an hour earlier.
The closer she moved toward the office, the more clearly she could hear the low cadence of his voice through the sealed doors. She grabbed her double viol and stood near the door.
“…temporary detainment transfers will proceed through the northern corridor rather than the central route.”
A pause. Another voice answered through the comm system, distorted slightly by transmission static.
“The Batonnese prisoner remains secured in Aurek-17, sir.”
“The current authorization rotation?” Thrawn asked.
“Updated every six hours, Grand Admiral.”
“Good. Increase oversight on all personnel assigned to the transfer. If extraction is attempted, I want advance indication before execution.”
She leaned slightly closer to the door despite herself.
“There has been increased chatter regarding insurgent interest in the detainee,” the officer continued. “Sector Command believes the prisoner may possess information connected to the resistance cells.”
“Then Sector Command is likely correct,” Thrawn said evenly.
He knew more than she and Irtur had assumed. She barely had time to step back before the office doors slid open abruptly.
Thrawn stood there immediately.
For one terrible second neither of them spoke.
“(Y/N),” he said calmly.
“I couldn’t sleep,” She said, forcing herself to breathe normally.
“And so you came here?”
“Yes.” She lifted the double viol slightly in her hands then, grateful she had brought it with her half on instinct. “I thought perhaps I could play for you.”
“You were standing outside the door,” he observed as the office behind him glowed softly with active holoscreens and military projections. Fleet movements rotated slowly in blue-white light across the walls.
“I did not want to interrupt your call.”
“You should have entered.”
The suspicion had not vanished entirely. She could feel it lingering beneath his composure like something submerged beneath water. But after another long moment, he stepped aside from the doorway.
“Come inside,” he said.
She entered carefully.
Thrawn deactivated the remaining transmission screens with a movement of his hand.
“You wished to play?” he asked.
“Yes.”
As the music filled the office, she wondered if he could hear the guilt inside it.
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
Midnight caused the residence to grow quiet.
(Y/N) waited another twenty minutes after the household finally settled before leaving her room. She wore one of the darker Senate robes rather than formal attire, her hair braided simply back away from her face. Not suspicious enough to draw attention. Not important enough to require escort protocols. The trick to surviving Imperial buildings, she had learned, was behaving as though you already belonged there.
She calmly moved through the upper administrative corridor, passing officers who straightened slightly when they recognized her before immediately looking away again. No one stopped her of course, she was Lady Thrawn.
She reached the secondary command offices near the northern wing and slowed slightly.
Earlier that evening she had listened carefully while Thrawn reviewed operational updates through a holo-call in the adjacent room. Temporary detainment transfers. Northern district holding rotations. Clearance delays due to increased insurgent activity.
Prisoners.
The detention facility Irtur needed.
A lieutenant emerged from one of the offices carrying datapads stacked against his chest. He froze briefly upon seeing her.
“Lady Thrawn.”
“Lieutenant,” she replied warmly.
He visibly relaxed and smiled when she smiled. He was young and young officers were easier to get information out of. He reminded her of Davio Langro from her bachelorette days on Coruscant.
“I apologize for interrupting so late,” she said softly, glancing toward the office behind him. “Grand Admiral Thrawn requested I retrieve the updated sector transit schedules. I believe they were forwarded incorrectly to administrative command?”
“Oh… yes, perhaps. I can assist you,” He said, blinking and allowing her inside the painfully grey office. On the grey walls a terminal glowed softly against one wall displaying regional security routing.
The lieutenant moved toward the central terminal.
“I believe the transport schedules were integrated alongside the detention transfer routes after yesterday’s update…”
‘Detention transfer routes.’
She stepped closer, leaning lightly against the edge of the console as though only half interested.
“You all work such impossible hours,” she said sympathetically.
“Recent insurgency activity has complicated things,” The lieutenant gave a tired laugh.
“I can imagine.” She glanced briefly toward the screen. “And all this for one prisoner transfer?”
He sighed immediately.
“Oh, don’t remind me. Security command’s treating the Batonnese detainee like he’s carrying plans to assassinate the emperor.”
“Really?”
“Tier-four encrypted detention protocols, rotating access authorization, direct review from the northern command office…” He shook his head. “It’s absurd.”
“Mm.” She tilted her head slightly toward the terminal. “That sounds expensive.”
“It is expensive.”
As he spoke, her eyes moved quickly across the active authorization screen.
Years in the Senate had taught her how to absorb information without appearing to.
“Though honestly,” the lieutenant continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I think Command’s worried someone might try extracting him.”
“That would certainly be dramatic.”
“Yes, well. Rebels are dramatic.”
He finally located the fabricated transit schedules she had never actually come for and handed the datapad toward her apologetically.
“My apologies for the delay, Lady Thrawn.”
“You’ve been extremely helpful.”
And I mean it.
She walked out of the office with swift haste and when she found the residence corridor she held herself against the wall and breathed in counts of eight. There was a window next to her but no light hit her face, the pale white ceiling light highlighted all her imperfections on her (s/c) skin from the sleepless nights which had now become routine. At least she was doing something now and not simply waiting in bed waiting for the sleep to find her.
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(Y/N) and Thrawn have a much needed reunion after she arrives on Lothal.
Masterlist, Part 27
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
Lothal greeted them with dust coloured skies.
The shuttle descended through layered clouds into the Imperial capital where everything looked half-built or half conquered. The landing platform itself was enormous, crowded with walkers, supply transports, and officers. As (Y/N) stepped down the ramp with (c/n) against her chest, she noticed all they eyes on her and how the security escort never left them.
Some of the workers stared because he was blue. Others because he was Thrawn’s. Most because they already understood he was becoming something politically useful. Irtur noticed all of it too.
“Well,” he murmured beside her as they were led toward the waiting transport convoy, “nothing says ‘welcome to Lothal’ quite like armed surveillance and atmospheric despair.”
“That is not the official tourism slogan,” she said tiredly.
“No? Could have fooled me.”
The Imperial residence assigned to Thrawn’s household was large and severe. Built in the clean angular style the Empire favored, where every hallway felt intentionally designed to discourage emotional vulnerability.
The officers escorted them through polished grey corridors while aides moved quickly ahead preparing rooms that had clearly already been prepared hours ago.
Irtur glanced once through one of the narrow windows overlooking the city below.
“Ah,” he said solemnly. “Excellent. They still have the same uncomfortable mattresses and grey views.”
Uiona made the faintest sound that might have been a suppressed laugh.
“I was worried modernization had reached Lothal,” Irtur continued.
One of the officers looked deeply uncertain whether this was criticism and (Y/N) was too exhausted to save him from the conversation.
The bedroom itself was quiet when she entered. Quiet enough that the absence of Thrawn felt immediate. (c/n) stirred lightly against her shoulder as she crossed toward the bed.That was when she saw the note resting neatly atop the dark blankets. Her name was written on the front in Thrawn’s precise hand.
‘I regret that military developments prevented my presence at the landing platform. I understand the discourtesy of the absence, particularly given the circumstances of your arrival.
I will see you tonight.
— Thrawn’
Her heart jumped and slowly warmed as she traced her fingers over the note. Very carefully, she folded it once and placed it beside the bed instead of throwing it away.
The office assigned to her within the Lothal residence overlooked the capital district below, all pale lights and distant military traffic moving through the warm dark. It was connected to her room and left the door open, giving her the view of her bed. Somewhere farther out beyond the city the plains stretched into shadow, broken occasionally by factory lights or the blinking red of Imperial towers.
(c/n) was asleep in the nursery with Uiona.
(Y/N) stood beside the window holding a glass she had not touched while Irtur sat across from her at the desk, sleeves rolled back slightly, exhaustion visible around his eyes now that the formalities of arrival were over.
“I will never forgive myself for it,” she said quietly.
“No,” he agreed softly. “Neither will I.”
“He trusted us,” she whispered. “He believed we were protecting Batonn.We recruited him into something he did not fully understand.”
“That is how resistance movements survive.”
“That sounds very noble when you say it quickly enough.”
Irtur looked at her for a long moment. “You think I do not know what this is costing us?”
“I remember him we were young,” Irtur continued quietly. “Arguing with archive staff because he thought the royal preservation records should be public access. He nearly got himself removed from the embassy over it.”
“He was terrified of public speaking.”
“He still is. If we delay this the ISB eventually reaches him first.”
“And if we don’t delay it,” she whispered, “then we become the kind of people who murder boys we once promised to protect.”
“The Empire made that decision long before we did.”
A knock sounded suddenly at the office door and both of them went still instantly.
The shift was automatic now. Fear trained into reflex. Irtur’s posture changed first, expression smoothing into something lighter, safer. (Y/N) placed the untouched glass down carefully before speaking.
“Come in.”
The door opened.
Thrawn stepped inside still wearing his uniform from whatever meeting had kept him occupied since their arrival. The white of it seemed almost stark against the dim office lighting. His eyes moved first to her, then briefly to Irtur.
“Ambassador,” he said with polite neutrality.
“Grand Admiral.”
For half a second the room felt unbearably crowded with things unsaid before Irtur stood smoothly.
“I was just informing Her Majesty that training resumes tomorrow morning.”
Thrawn’s gaze shifted briefly toward her.
“Training?”
“She is improving,” Irtur said pleasantly. “Slowly. Against extraordinary odds.”
“Irtur,” she warned tiredly.
“What?” he said innocently. “I am encouraging morale.”
“By insulting me?”
“It builds character. I will leave you both to your evening,” Irtur said finally.
As he passed Thrawn near the doorway he paused just long enough to add lightly:
“And Grand Admiral? The mattresses are still terrible.”
Then he disappeared into the corridor before anyone could answer. The door swooshed closed behind him, leaving Thrawn and (Y/N) alone in their office.
“How was the journey?” he asked after a moment.
“Long. Over secured.” She folded her arms loosely. “Your officers stared at us like we were a classified military project.”
“In fairness,” Thrawn said calmly, “from their perspective you are adjacent to one.”
“That is not comforting.”
“No,” he agreed. “It was not intended to be.”
He stepped farther into the room then, “Did the transport present any complications?”
“No. Though Irtur spent most of the flight becoming increasingly convinced we were about to be arrested.”
“A rational concern.”
“You are not helping your case.”
“My case?”
“The one where I attempt to convince myself bringing our infant son to an active military sector was not a catastrophic decision.”
“And our soon?” he asked quietly then.
“He slept through most of it,” she said softer now. “Though Uiona says he dislikes turbulence less than I do.”
“A useful adaptation.”
“He also started screaming when one of the officers came into our room unexpectedly.”
“Screamed?”
“He didn’t knock.”
The corner of Thrawn’s mouth moved very slightly upward.
She stared at him in mild disbelief. “Was that amusement?”
“It appears the child has inherited strong evaluative instincts.”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet you continue speaking to me voluntarily.”
The room grew quieter after that. Outside the windows, Lothal’s capital glowed in scattered gold and white beneath the darkening sky. Somewhere farther away she could faintly hear the distant engines of patrol craft moving through the atmosphere. Thrawn studied her carefully.
“You are thinner,” he said eventually.
“I had a child.”
“Yes,” he said. “And you are still thinner.”
“Coruscant was…” She searched briefly for the correct word. “Difficult.The investigation. The Senate. The whispers. Everything.”
Gods, she had missed him. Not safely. Not rationally. But genuinely. And perhaps he saw some part of that realization cross her face because his expression softened almost imperceptibly before he spoke again.
“I regretted my absence from the birth.”
The honesty of it caught her off guard again.
“You were commanding a military campaign.”
“That does not alter the regret.”
“You really did miss us,” she said quietly.
“Yes,” he said simply. “Very much.”
The distance of the past months suddenly felt unbearable in a way she had not prepared herself for. The calls through holograms and the war always existing around him like weather. And now he was here again, standing close enough to touch.
“Then you will see me tonight,” she said softly.
For the first time since entering the room, something in Thrawn’s composure shifted fully.
“Yes,” he said, quieter now. “I will.”
He stepped closer slowly enough that she could have moved away if she wanted to, but she did not. His hand lifted carefully to her face, fingers brushing lightly along her jaw with a gentleness that still startled her every time it appeared. She leaned into his touch before she could stop herself.
“You are exhausted,” he murmured.
“So are you.”
“That is likely true.”
“And yet here you are.”
“And yet here I am.”
Then he kissed her. Not like reunion after absence in stories. It felt instead like recognition. Like two people who had spent too long surviving separately remembering, briefly, that they did not always have to. Outside, Lothal’s city lights burned against the dark plains beyond the capital. Somewhere distant, ships moved through the atmosphere and alarms sounded faintly within the military district, reminders that the galaxy remained exactly as dangerous as it had been that morning.
But for a little while none of it entered the room.
His kiss deepened gradually, lips moving against hers with a tenderness that made her chest ache. Thrawn's hand slid from her jaw to the nape of her neck, fingers threading into her hair without pulling, just holding her steady.
(Y/N) pressed closer, her body molding to his, feeling the solid warmth of him through his uniform blouse.
He broke the kiss first.
“Your room,” he whispered, “If you'll have me there.”
She nodded, and they left the office together, steps soft on the carpeted floor. The door hissed open at her touch, revealing the bed with its dark sheets, a viewport framing Lothal's skyline.
He turned her gently to face him, hands at the fastenings of her blouse. Buttons slipped free one by one under his careful fingers, exposing her skin. The fabric whispered to the floor, followed by her skirt, leaving her in undergarments that he unclasped with the same patience. She stood bare before him, skin flushing under his steady gaze, dark eyes tracing her curves without hunger, just quiet admiration.
He stripped then, shirt tugged over his head to reveal a lean, blue muscled torso. She reached for him, but he caught her wrists softly, kissing her palms before drawing her to the bed.
They sunk onto the mattress together, him easing her back against the pillows. Thrawn hovered above, kissing her mouth again, then her throat, collarbone.
He pushed slowly into her, causing her to gasp at the feeling. They both stilled, savoring the join, her heat gripping his length, his pulse throbbing inside her.
She had forgotten how it felt. How it felt to be penetrated by him and allow warmth to cover her body. She felt the pain turn into ecstasy and arched her back into the mattress.
Movement began languid, he thrust into her with her walls clamping around him, welcoming him further into her tightened body. Her hands explored his back, feeling muscles flex under her touch.
(Y/N) shattered and moaned as she felt him release into her, her body quaking around him. Thrawn eased out after some time, allowing his release to stain the bedsheets.
(Y/N) lay against his chest half-awake, one arm draped loosely across him. In their fragile peace the room became quiet except for the soft hum of the residence systems and the distant sounds of the city outside. It was strangely peaceful. Dangerous in its peacefulness.
Thrawn’s hand rested carefully along her back.
“Irtur is going to complain tomorrow morning when I fail training again,” she murmured sleepily as she dug herself into his chest.
“He appears committed to your improvement.”
“He appears committed to my suffering.”
“A subtle distinction.”
For a few more minutes they stayed like that in silence.
Then, quieter:
“How bad is it here?” she asked.
He did not answer immediately, which was answer enough already.
“Manageable,” he said at last.
“You will tell me if it becomes unsafe?”
“Yes.”
“And you will actually mean it?”
“Yes.”
She also knew, however, there were limits even to what Grand Admiral Thrawn could protect.
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The training hall on Lothal was larger than the one on Coruscant and somehow even less welcoming. The walls were grey with one wall deviating and being almost entirely transparisteel, the Lothal morning visible through it, the dust-colored sky lightening slowly toward whatever color Lothal's sky decided to be at full light, the plains visible in the far distance beyond the capital's angular skyline.
(Y/N) stood near the center mat twirling the practice staff absently between her palms while waiting for Irtur to arrive. She ran it three times and her left hand was doing the thing it did when she pushed it past the comfortable interval.
The doors at the far end of the hall slid open. She looked up automatically, already preparing some insult about his lateness.
“...Oh.”
Thrawn stepped into the hall instead, dressed not in full uniform but in black training attire that somehow made him look even more dangerous.
"Where is Irtur?" She asked, confused.
"I sent him a communication this morning," Thrawn said. "His presence at the training session is not required today."
"And he accepted this?"
"He is a reasonable man."
"He is many things," she said. "Reasonable is not always one of them."
"Nevertheless," Thrawn said. He moved to the equipment rack as though he had done this before, selecting the staff that matched his height and balance with the same precision he applied to everything.
“You’re taking his place?” She asked.
“For this morning.”
“That feels deeply unfair.”
“How so?”
"You are the Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy," she said.
"Yes," he said. "Among other things."
She looked at the staff in her hands.
"Irtur is going to be very annoyed when he finds out about this," she said.
"Yes," Thrawn said. "I expect he will."
Something moved in her expression that was almost a smile.
She settled into the stance Irtur had been drilling into her for four months, the weight distribution, the grip, the specific positioning of the left hand that was harder with the prosthetic finger and that she had been compensating for in ways Irtur described as technically creative and practically problematic.
“Ready?” He asked, stepping onto the mat and lifting his staff into position.
“No.”
“An unfortunate but recurring condition.”
Then he moved fast.
Faster than Irtur.
The first strike cracked against her staff hard enough to jar her arms immediately. She barely blocked the second. By the third he had already twisted behind her and swept her legs cleanly out from beneath her.
She hit the mat with an offended noise.
Thrawn lowered the staff slightly while looking down at her.
“You anticipated the wrong angle.”
“You attacked from three directions in under two seconds.”
“A battlefield rarely limits itself to one.”
She accepted his offered hand this time mostly because her pride had not yet recovered enough energy to refuse it dramatically.
The second match was longer.
She managed two blocks she had not managed in the first, the deflection on the left side that Irtur had been working on, which hurt in the specific way of using the prosthetic finger under pressure but which worked.
“Your left side is compensating again,” he said as their staffs locked briefly together.
“Oh, wonderful,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “Now there are two of you.
“You shift your weight before impact,” he continued calmly, like they were discussing fleet logistics instead of actively trying to knock each other unconscious. “You anticipate failure in the hand before the strike lands.”
“It’s difficult not to when part of the hand is artificial.”
“The weakness is not entirely physical,” he observed quietly. “You hesitate before committing force with that side, not because you are incapable. Because you no longer trust it.”
She nearly had him before he moved in a way she had not mapped and (Y/N) was on the mat again.
The third match she lost in ten seconds.
It was the worst one. She had been adjusting and she had over-adjusted and the specific confidence of the adjustment had produced a gap in the approach.
He disarmed her halfway through and caught the falling staff before it hit the ground with irritating efficiency.
“You hesitate before committing to forward momentum,” he observed.
“Because forward momentum keeps resulting in me dying.”
“Only temporarily.”
The fourth match ended with her pinned flat against the mat, one of his forearms braced carefully across her wrist while the practice staff rested lightly against her shoulder.
She was breathing hard now, hair falling loose around her face.
He released her and stepped back immediately, offering space for her to stand.
She stared at him while catching her breath.
“You enjoy this.”
“The exercise is strategically useful.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the answer you are receiving.”
When the fifth match began, she stopped trying to overpower him and match speed with speed. So when Thrawn advanced again she moved differently. Closer instead of backward.
He blocked high expecting the same angle she had used before and she pivoted sharply beneath it, catching his wrist with the staff and using his own momentum against him the way Irtur had been trying unsuccessfully to force into her for months.
For one brief glorious second surprise crossed Thrawn’s face.
Then both of them went down hard onto the mat.
Except this time she landed on top of him. Her knees pinned his sides instinctively while one hand caught his wrist against the floor before he could recover the staff.
Her hair had come loose completely now, falling around her as she stared down at him breathing hard. It had grown since their wedding day, but not long enough to be woven into a proper Batonnese braid.
Thrawn looked up at her with unmistakable surprise.
“Better,” he said slowly.
For a moment neither of them moved.
And suddenly she became very aware of the fact that she was sitting on top of her husband in the middle of a training hall while he looked up at her with that unreadable steady focus of his.
“So,” she said quietly, still catching her breath. “Does this mean I’m improving?”
One corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
“Yes,” he said. “Considerably.”
The training hall suddenly felt much quieter than it had a moment ago. She had not moved and was still breathing hard from the sparring match, knees braced against his sides, one of his wrists pinned lightly beneath her hand.
“...Are we alone?” she asked softly.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the darkened edges of the training hall before returning to her.
“I believe so,” he said.
Something in the way he answered it made her heart stutter.
Then she leaned down and kissed him. For a second he seemed almost startled by it. Then one of his hands lifted carefully to the side of her face and the kiss deepened into something slower and far more dangerous.
The war. The investigations. The Empire. None of it disappeared, but for a few stolen moments it became background noise again, beneath the simple reality of missing someone too long.
Near the entrance to the training hall, the doors slid open quietly. Irtur stepped halfway inside carrying a datapad. He stopped immediately as (Y/N) and Thrawn remained entirely unaware of him.
Irtur stared at the scene for one exhausted second, then muttered something deeply disrespectful in Batonnese beneath his breath. He reached over and dimmed the training hall lights lower from the wall panel.
Then he turned around and left again without a sound.
Thrawn's fingers traced her cheekbone, then slid into her loose hair, cradling her head as their kiss grew hungrier. She shifted atop him, thighs squeezing his ribs, the thin fabric of her training pants rubbing against the hardness straining his trousers.
As heat pooled between her legs, she pulled back just enough to tug at his blouse. His blue chest gleamed under the dim lights.
The air in the room seemed to thicken as she worked his belt, the metallic click echoing in the silence. Her hand closed around him, stroking the velvet heat of his length, Thrawn’s composure finally fractured. A low hiss escaped his teeth, his hips bucking upward in a raw, instinctive search for friction.
Thrawn’s hands clamped onto her hips as she cast her top aside. She shoved her pants down her thighs and kicked them off along with her boots.
“You are beautiful,” he whispered into the cold air as he traced his hand over her bare chest. He traced her in the way one would trace a beautiful stone, as though to confirm it were real. She yelped and arched herself as his hand came upon her nipple.
She positioned herself and sank down slowly, taking him into her aching cunt. They both groaned, her walls clenching around his full length. She braced her hands against his shoulders and began to move. It was a rhythmic, rolling grind, gentle at first before becoming feral.
The sound of their union filled the room, a wet, rhythmic sliding punctuated by the heavy slap of skin on skin.
Thrawn’s thumbs dug into her hip bones to meet her every grind, the art of the war they had been practicing was utterly forgotten, replaced by her far more dangerous art of surrender.
Leaning forward, hands braced on his chest, she began to ride faster.
With a sudden flinch, he seized her waist. With the blur of motion, her world tilted; she gasped as he rolled her beneath him, pinning her into the yielding mat with the crushing, delicious weight of his frame.
He loomed over her, a silhouette of midnight blue against the dim light, his eyes glowing like dying embers in a forge. There was no more calculation in his gaze, only a raw, imperial demand.
"My turn to dictate the terms," he rasped. He caught her wrists, pinning them above her head with a single hand, forcing her chest to arch upward.
With a low, guttural growl, he drove back into her. She cried out, her head tossing back as he filled her. He moved with the cadence of a conqueror, each thrust a heavy, driving beat that shattered her composure into a thousand glittering shards.
Her legs tangled around his waist, her heels digging into the backs of his powerful thighs, silent pleas for him to never stop. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath hot and ragged, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of her throat as he claimed her again and again.
Soon, Thrawn’s pace became relentless as (Y/N)’s fingers clawed at the mat as her breath came in jagged, broken sobs. The tension within her coiled tighter and tighter. Every time he withdrew, the void was a momentary agony; every time he returned, the impact sent white hot sparks dancing across her vision.
"Look at me, your majesty" he commanded, his voice a raw, jagged edge.
She forced her eyes open, meeting that burning crimson gaze. In that moment of absolute vulnerability, she released. The sight of her undoing was the final catalyst for his own. His muscles turned to iron, his back arching as he delivered one final, soul-shattering thrust. He buried himself within her as he poured himself into her with a force that left them both gasping.
The heavy, rhythmic silence of the training room was broken only by their synchronized gasping. He lingered for a moment longer, his weight a grounding heat against her, before he finally withdrew with a slow, lingering slide that left her feeling cold and achingly hollow.
He rolled onto his back beside her, his chest heaving as the dim overhead lights caught the sheen of sweat on his skin.
For a long minute, neither spoke.
Thrawn sat up with a fluid, disciplined grace that belied the feral energy of moments before. He reached for his discarded blouse. As he draped the fabric over his broad shoulders, he turned his head to look at her, his glowing crimson eyes regaining their sharp, analytical clarity.
(Y/N) remained stretched against the training mat, still trying to steady her breathing. One of her hands rested across her stomach while the other covered her eyes briefly in exhausted embarrassment.
“You are staring,” she muttered.
“You are distracting,” he corrected calmly.
“Then I wound you.”
A faint shift touched the corner of his mouth. Then his expression settled into something more thoughtful.
Then his expression settled into something more thoughtful.
“There is another matter. It is administrative,” he said.
“You sound ominous.”
“I have commissioned an official portrait.”
She lowered her hand from her face slowly. “A portrait.”
“Yes.”
“Of whom?”
“Us,” he said simply. “And the child.”
She stared at him for a moment in disbelief before letting out a quiet laugh that sounded almost pained.
“You choose now to tell me this?”
“The scheduling office confirmed the appointment this morning.”
“Of course it did.”
“The portrait will be archived through the Imperial household registry and distributed to several sector publications during Fête Week.”
It was an imperial tradition for high ranking officers during the holiday, to have portraits taken with their families in order to humanize them. (Y/N) had seen them before, even before the insurgency when the imperials first came to Batonn.
“The symbol again,” She said as she looked away toward the darkened ceiling above them.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“I also wanted one for myself,” he said, watching (Y/N)’s eyes meet his again, “You are both historically significant but that is not the only reason.”
“How sweet.”
Thrawn moved closer again, slower this time, and brushed a loose strand of hair back from her face with surprising gentleness.
“You should rest before tomorrow,” he said quietly.
(Y/N) is summoned to Lothal by Thrawn, who reveals he is protecting her despite knowing her loyalties are divided. As the Empire transforms her son into a political symbol, she and her ambassador are forced into a corner where survival demands a sacrifice.
Masterlist, Part 26
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Thrawn had always come and gone.
This was the structure of their marriage and she had accepted its structure early, he was a Grand Admiral and the Empire required its Grand Admiral continuously, and his absence was not personal in the sense of being directed at her specifically, it was simply the condition of what he was.
When he was present they were, she searched for the accurate word and found it, careful with each other. Not cold, not the cold of people who had nothing between them, but the careful of people who had something between them that neither of them had fully mapped and both of them were navigating around the edges of with the attention you gave to things that could be damaged by carelessness.
She did not trust him. She needed to be precise about this in her own accounting.
This time however, felt different.
Maybe because there was a child now sleeping in the next room beneath a low lit mobile of Batonnese moons Uiona had commissioned quietly without asking permission. Perhaps because she had watched him hold their son with something dangerously close to tenderness and now could not fully separate Grand Admiral Thrawn from the image of blue hands supporting an infant with impossible care.
She shivered when she remembered the way Irtur now spoke to her like a woman standing near the edge of a cliff whether she recognized it or not.
Two months after (c/n)’s birth, Irtur decided (Y/N) was recovered enough to begin training. (Y/N) personally believed this decision had been made by a man who had suffered some form of irreversible brain damage in his youth.
“You are smiling,” she informed him as they stood facing each other in one of the unused private training halls. “Which means you are enjoying this too much.”
“I am,” Irtur admitted easily.
The practice staff in her hands felt heavier than she remembered. Everything felt heavier now. Her body still did not belong entirely to her again. Sleep came in fractured pieces between feedings and nightmares and late-night messages from outer-rim sectors she could no longer emotionally separate from the people dying in them.
It was also hard to grip the staff in her left hand as she never fully got used to the prosthetic finger she had been forced to live with.
Irtur twirled his own staff once lazily. The hall lights reflected softly off the polished floor, creating a shadow’s outline of the staff. Outside the high windows Coruscant traffic moved in endless ribbons.
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Excellent,” He struck immediately.
She blocked too slowly. The impact jolted painfully through her wrists and he swept her legs out from beneath her with insulting ease. She hit the floor hard.
“Oh, I hate you,” she groaned from the floor.
“You say that every session.”
“Because every session feels like an assassination attempt.”
Irtur extended a hand. She slapped it away and forced herself upright on her own.
“Again,” he said.
Three minutes later he disarmed her completely. Five minutes after that he had her pinned against the mat with the end of the staff pressed lightly to her throat.
“Dead,” he announced.
“You are impossible.”
“You are distracted.”
“I had a child eight weeks ago.”
“Yes,” he said. “And now you are holding your weapon too high because you are compensating for weakness in your left side.”
“You can tell that?”
“I can tell you are exhausted before you enter the room.”
He stepped back and allowed her space to stand again. Sweat clung to the back of her neck. Her muscles burned already.
“This was a mistake,” she muttered.
“No. This is necessary.”
“For whom?”
“For the woman who once slapped Governor Restos in his own office.”
“That was different.”
“You aimed better then.”
They circled each other slowly.
“You’re hesitating,” Irtur said.
“I’m thinking.”
“You are overthinking.”
“Well forgive me for wanting strategy before you beat me unconscious.”
“You already think strategically. Your problem is that you stop yourself halfway through action.”
He lunged again. She blocked instinctively this time, twisted, nearly managed to catch his shoulder and then he flipped her cleanly onto the mat again.
She let out a furious sound into the floor.
“Oh, gods above.”
Irtur rested the end of his staff against his shoulder.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “for someone married to Grand Admiral Thrawn, I expected significantly more terrifying combat ability.”
She rolled onto her back to glare at him.
“I married him. I did not absorb him through proximity.”
“A missed opportunity.”
She threw her practice glove at him. He dodged it effortlessly.
Then his expression shifted, the teasing disappeared so gradually she almost missed it. He lowered the staff.
“Get up, (Y/N)!” The use of her name in Batonnese made her pause.
Slowly, she pushed herself upright again, breathing hard. Irtur looked at her for a long moment.
“You are stronger than this,” Something in his voice landed differently this time, it was expectation. The expectation he had for the queen of an ash world to know how to wield a staff, a primitive weapon used by the Batonnese for centries.
“You survived Batonn,” he said quietly. “You survived Palpatine. You survived becoming a symbol for people who wanted to own you. You survived childbirth while your husband was halfway across the galaxy commanding a military campaign.”
She looked away.
“You are not weak because you are tired.”
The training hall suddenly felt very quiet.
“You think I do not see what is happening to you?” he asked softly. “You move through the Senate like a ghost now. You barely sleep. You hold that child like you are afraid the galaxy will steal him from you if you loosen your grip for even a second. And maybe that fear is rational. Which is exactly why you need to remember who you are”
She swallowed hard and tightened her grip on the staff.
“I don’t know who that is anymore.”
“Yes you do.”
“No,” she said sharply now. “I don’t. I don’t know if I’m a senator or a rebel or a mother or his wife or Batonn’s queen or just…” Her voice broke slightly from exhaustion. “Just something the Empire reshaped into usefulness.”
“You are all of those things,” he said as he stepped closer to her. “And none of them erase the others.”
Then he lifted his staff again and settled back into stance.
“Again,” he said.
“You just delivered an emotional speech.”
“And now you are going to stop feeling sorry for yourself and hit me properly.”
The second round went worse than the first.
(Y/N) came at Irtur too quickly, still angry from the last loss, the staff striking against his with enough force to sting her palms. He pivoted easily. The end of his staff caught behind her ankle and swept.
She hit the mat hard.
“Oh, come now,” Irtur said, not even breathing heavily. “At this point I’m beginning to take it personally.”
“You are annoying.”
“I am winning.”
“That does not make you less annoying.”
“It actually makes me substantially more so.”
Irtur spun the staff once between his palms.
“Again.”
“I hate you.”
“You say that every lesson.”
“And every lesson you continue deserving it.”
The staff cracked sharply against his. Once. Twice. Three times. Faster now. She drove him backward half a step and felt a sudden flare of satisfaction. Then he disarmed her completely. The weapon spun from her grip and clattered across the training floor.
“Oh, stars,” Irtur sighed dramatically. “That one was genuinely embarrassing.”
She opened her mouth to insult him properly when movement near the doorway caught her attention.
Someone stood there watching. Tall. Familiar. Her expression changed instantly.
“Tannian?”
Before she could think about dignity or sweat or the fact she was currently losing a sparring match in front of witnesses, she crossed the room almost at a run and threw her arms around him.
“What an unexpected surprise,” she breathed.
Tannian laughed softly as he caught her easily. “You say that like I appeared through the Force.”
“You were supposed to still be stationed in the outer Rim.”
“I finally got shore leave.” He pulled back slightly to look at her. “Though apparently I arrived in time to witness Lord Irtur humiliating royalty with a stick.”
“I was teaching her discipline,” Irtur said.
“You were enjoying yourself.”
“These are not mutually exclusive concepts.”
Tannian’s gaze softened as he looked at her properly now, taking in the exhaustion still faintly beneath her eyes, the slight changes motherhood had left behind. “You look well,” he said gently.
“That is a lie.”
“It may be.”
“Come,” she said, placing her staff back on the rack and walking back towards her brother “let us go see your nephew.”
In her residence, Tannian looked at the child and almost said nothing for a full minute.
"Can I hold him?"
"Yes," she said.
He held the child with the terrified carefulness of someone who had not held an infant recently and was aware of their own inexperience with the fragile things of the world.
"He's going to be remarkable," he said.
"Well, he has a lot to contend with," she said.
"All remarkable people do." Tannian looked back at the child. "He has your look about him. The eyes are going to be different but the, there's something in the structure of the face. The way he holds himself even now." He paused. "Stubborn."
“You know, everyone has been saying that and yet I don’t see it.”
“You will in time.”
She smiled at him then turned her head when she heard the pristine, perfect steps of V3PO as it entered the room.
“Your majesty, a gift has arrived from Lieutenant Commander Res Geronh.”
She knew it was from him before V3PO brought it to her, the formal wrapping, the Imperial seal, the handwriting on the card that she had known since childhood and associated now with specific memories she kept in the sealed room and visited rarely.
“How kind of our dear brother,” Tannian said as he placed his nephew back in the bassinet.
Res. The traitor brother. The one who had stood before their fallen father in Imperial regalia and called his sister a destabilizing variable requiring containment. The one who had been at the front with the Imperials on the hot midsummer's day. The one who was alive and promoted and apparently writing congratulatory notes.
She looked at the card for a long moment before she opened it.
‘To the Grand Admiral and his Lady, on the occasion of the birth of their son.
The Geronh family extends its congratulations on this significant occasion. The continuation of the line is a matter of great moment for Batonn and for the Imperial administration of the sector. I have no doubt that the child will reflect the exceptional qualities of his father's distinguished service and bring honor to both his families.
With respect and in service to the Empire,
Lieutenant Commander Res Geronh’
Enclosed: A commemorative piece from the Geronh family estate's historical collection, chosen as an appropriate acknowledgment of this occasion.
“What the hell?” She whispered under the breath before handing the letter to Tannian.
It was a letter to a Grand Admiral from a junior officer who wanted the Grand Admiral to know that he existed and was useful and was very Imperial and had no inconvenient attachments to anything that the Empire found inconvenient.
She looked at the enclosed piece.
It was a historical artifact from her family's estate, a small ceremonial object, pre-Imperial, the kind that appeared in the palace's formal records. It was genuinely valuable and genuinely historical and it was also precisely the kind of thing that would impress a Chiss Grand Admiral who had a documented interest in the art and artifacts of the cultures he encountered.
It had nothing to do with a newborn child.
"He sent a gift," Tannian said.
"He sent Thrawn a gift," she said. "And put the child's name on the card."
Tannian looked at the artifact. He picked it up and looked at it with the careful attention of a man identifying something. "This is from the royal gallery," he said. "Mother’s gallery. A ceremonial collection."
"I know."
"This was… mother kept this on the shelf in the nursery. She said it was from the third queen of the Geronh line."
She looked at the artifact in her brother's hands. She looked at it with the particular quality of looking at something that had been her mother’s.
"He's selling mother’s things," she said. Quietly. "To the man who ended the monarchy."
"I'm going to put it on the shelf," she said. "With the hawk and the naboo flowers and the other things. And it's going to be my son's because he is the Geronh line and everything that came from that line is his. Res sent it to Thrawn. I'm giving it to (c/n). Those are the only hands it needs to pass through."
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The days came and went, and Irtur never let her miss a day of training.
At first she hated him for it.
Her body still ached from the birth in ways she had not expected. Some mornings (c/n) had cried through most of the night and she arrived at the training hall exhausted, hair hastily pinned back, hands still smelling faintly of the oils Uiona used on the baby’s skin. Irtur never accepted exhaustion as an excuse. He handed her the staff anyway.
“Again,” he would say.
And again.
And again.
Three more months passed like that.
At night she sat in the nursery with (c/n) asleep against her chest while Coruscant glowed beyond the windows in endless seas of light. She memorized him obsessively. His bright red of his eyes. The way his tiny hands curled instinctively into the fabric of her sleeves. The soft blue skin that made Imperial visitors stare half a second too long before remembering themselves.
Thrawn called irregularly from Lothal. Sometimes only for minutes at a time. And still, whenever the calls ended, she found herself missing him afterward in ways she resented. By the beginning of the sixth month, (C/n) had begun recognizing voices. He turned immediately toward hers. Toward Uiona’s. Toward Thrawn’s through holographic transmission with startling attentiveness whenever he heard it. That frightened her more than she admitted aloud, because children learned attachment before they learned politics. And someday imperial politics would come to take him from her.
New Year Fête Week approached slowly. The start of the new year was of course celebrated on Batonn since its creation but Fête Week was imperial. There would be a military parade alongside children carrying lanterns with clan markings painted carefully by hand on the streets of Paeragosto.
(Y/N) stood in the nursery holding (c/n) against her shoulder while Coruscant glowed beyond the windows. He was beginning to grow faster now. More alert. He looked almost entirely like Thrawn. Some days this frightened her so badly she had to leave the room for a few minutes just to breathe.
‘Selfishness surrounds my heart.’
She thought to herself.
‘And a noble Queen is never selfish’
She was in the sitting room reading when V3PO announced that “the Grand Admiral is requesting immediate transmission from Lothal.”
She went to her office and accepted the transmission.
He resolved in the blue-white of the holographic quality, the Chimaera's office behind him.
"Grand Admiral," she said.
"Lady Thrawn," he said.
She waited as he held her gaze through the transmission and she waited because she had learned over the course of this marriage that waiting was information and she was always gathering information.
"How is the child?"
“Well, he is doing very well.”
"And you?"
"Managing," she said. "Dr. Thalias is satisfied with the recovery progress."
"The documentation she sent was conservative," he said.
"The documentation she sent," she said, "was accurate."
She thought: he is building toward something.
"I have been thinking," she said, before he arrived at whatever he was building toward, "about Fête Week.I would like to take (c/n) to Batonn, I believe it is appropriate."
The silence after was immediate. Thrawn looked down at the sleeping child in her arms through the holo before several seconds before answering.
“No,” He said with the word that sounded harder than expected.
She straightened slightly. “No?”
“No,” he repeated calmly. “You will not be returning to Batonn at this time.”
“The clans gather during New Year's Week,” Her exhausted voice sharpened instantly into anger.
“I am aware.”
“He should see his home.”
Thrawn finally looked at her fully then.
“Lothal is currently the more secure location.”
“What?”
“I am summoning you to Lothal.”
For one terrible moment she felt again what she had felt during Palpatine’s speech at the gala, the sensation of her marriage collapsing back into Imperial hierarchy without warning.
“Lothal is an active military theater. There are insurgent attacks almost weekly."
"Not within the Imperial sector where you would be housed. The situation on Lothal is otherwise stabilizing," he said.
"Stabilizing is not stable," she said.
"No," he said. "But it is sufficiently secure for the purpose."
"And what is the purpose?"
He studied her for a moment before speaking again.
"There has been discussion," he said, "within the Naval hierarchy. Regarding my household."
“Discussion,” she repeated.
“Interest,” he corrected.
“In me?”
“In the child,” Thrawn’s voice remained level, “the Empire is entering a period of instability within the Outer Rim. Symbolism has become strategically significant.”
“He’s a baby.”
“He is also the son of a Grand Admiral and the heir to Batonn’s surviving monarchy.”
“He is not a symbol.”
“No,” Thrawn said quietly. “But others will make him one regardless.”
"They want to use him and you let them."
"They want to use the image of him," Thrawn said. "There is a distinction."
"Is there," she said.
He held her gaze.
"From their perspective," he said, "yes. From yours, I understand that the distinction is less clear."
She turned away from him immediately, “I knew this would happen,” she whispered.
"The Outer Rim is restless," he said. "it has produced consequences that the Imperial communications apparatus is managing with decreasing effectiveness. The narrative of Imperial order requires supplementation. A Grand Admiral with an outer rim wife and a child represents a specific kind of supplementation." He held her gaze. "Unity. Stability. The suggestion that what the Empire has built extends to the personal as well as the structural."
"We are a recruitment poster," she said.
"We are a symbol," he said. "Which you have always been. The specific content of the symbol is shifting."
"You knew this," she said. "When we married. You knew the child would become this."
"I knew it was possible," he said. "The Emperor's design for the arrangement included this possibility."
"And you are telling me now."
"I am telling you now because the possibility has become the reality and you require accurate information."
"And Batonn," she said. "The answer remains no?"
"The timing is not appropriate," he said. "The celebration observance on Batonn in the current political climate, following Ghorman, with the ISB investigation still active, would be read as a statement."
"It would be a cultural observance."
"Nothing you do," he said, "is read as only what it is."
He was not wrong. That was the difficulty of the position, that he was frequently not wrong, that the accuracy of his assessments did not change what it cost her to receive them.
“The honesty is almost cruel.”
“I have found that you prefer it.”
“I prefer kindness.”
“Kindness,” he said carefully, “would be allowing you to walk unprepared into what is already occurring.”
“And bringing me to Lothal is preparation?”
“It is protection.”
“Protection from whom?”
“From what you are bringing yourself into, deviation from the empire,” he said.
The answer stunned her into silence. For a moment neither of them spoke.
Behind him, somewhere beyond the office walls of the Chimaera, alarms sounded faintly through the transmission before disappearing again into the machinery of military life. He did not react to them.
“You are speaking about the Empire as though you are not part of it.”
“I am part of it,” he said. “Which means I understand the mechanics of it more clearly than most.”
“And what exactly happens on Lothal?” she asked. “Do they parade us through receptions? Have me stand beside you while officers stare at the child and reassure themselves the Outer Rim can be domesticated if given enough time?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“The sector governors assigned to nearby systems will be present within the capital during Fête Week,” he said. “Several Moffs. Representatives from the Naval command structure. There will be formal appearances.”
“There it is.”
“There is also security,” he continued evenly. “Isolation from Coruscant political surveillance. Distance from the Senate. Distance from the ISB inquiry currently developing around Batonnese associates.”
“What development?”
“A minor one presently,” he said. “Which is why I am informing you now rather than after escalation.”
Cold moved through her body and the room seemed to close in on her.
“Does this involve my ambassador?”
Thrawn did not answer immediately and that itself was answer enough.Her grip tightened instinctively around (c/n).
“What happened?”
“There was an audit request filed regarding several cultural expenditures tied to the Batonnese diaspora initiative.”
The credits. The art collection cover story.
“The request originated through routine financial oversight channels,” he continued. “At present it appears administrative rather than targeted. I am ensuring it remains administrative.”
“You’re protecting us.”
“I am containing variables,” he corrected automatically.
“Thrawn.”
His eyes lifted to hers again.
“Yes,” he said quietly after a moment. “I am protecting you.”
The words sat strangely between them. Too honest. Too exposed. She looked away first because it hurt less than continuing to look at him while he said things like that in the same calm voice he used to discuss fleet formations.
“You should hate me,” (Y/N) whispered suddenly.
“Why?”
“Because every time you protect me, I am lying to you.”
“I am aware,” he said. Her head snapped back toward the hologram immediately, “and I know you are not entirely aligned with the Empire’s interests.”
Fear moved through her so quickly it almost felt like cold blood.
“And yet,” he continued before she could speak, “you remain aligned with your people’s survival. Which is not always the same thing.”
“How much do you know?”
“I know enough to understand that forcing you further into a corner would be strategically unwise.”
“That is a very elegant way of saying you’re choosing not to look too closely.”
“Yes,” he said.
(c/n) stirred lightly against her chest. Instinctively she rocked him once until he settled again.Thrawn watched the movement with an expression she could not fully name.
“Come to Lothal, (Y/N).”
Not Lady Thrawn. Not Senator. Just her name.
And somehow that made it harder to refuse.
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
She sent the message to Irtur when she laid in bed still wet from her shower.
‘Walk with me tomorrow. Ninth hour. I need to tell you something.’
He responded within twenty minutes:
‘Alright.’
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
Irtur entered through the apartment door still wearing the dark formal coat from whatever Senate function he had abandoned to get there. The moment he saw her expression, his own changed.
“What happened?”
He followed her as she set out with the stroller, down to the gardens, the same garden she had once walked with Thrawn when they first married.
“Thrawn called from Lothal,” she began under her breath, “They audited the diaspora expenditures.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know yet. He said it still looks administrative.”
“Still,” Irtur repeated carefully.
“Yes.” She looked at him finally. “And he’s summoning me to Lothal.”
“For what purpose?” His expression darkened immediately.
“The child.” Her voice sharpened with bitterness. “Imperial unity. Outer Rim symbolism. Stability. The same performance as always except now they’ve added a baby to it. He says it’s for our protection.”
“And do you believe him?”
The terrible thing was that she did.
“That’s not the point,” she snapped.
“No,” he said, “It actually is.”
“This is serious now,” she said. “Do you understand? Before, if something happened, if the investigation expanded or the shipments were traced or the maps somehow led back to us…” Her voice caught briefly. “I would have been the first one to go down.”
“And now?”
“Now I have him,” she said gripping harder on the stroller, “I cannot survive an Imperial prison with an infant and I cannot disappear anymore. I cannot even run properly. Everything is different now.”
“This is exactly what they wanted.”
“What?”
The artificial flowers and bushes no longer distracted her as she looked directly at him, at the sharpness of his eyes.
“The Empire. Palpatine. All of this.” He gestured vaguely toward the stroller, the entire life surrounding them. “You think the child only became politically useful after he was born? No. The child was part of the architecture from the beginning.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s true.”
“He is not some Imperial strategy.” Her voice rose instantly. “He is my son.”
“I know that.”
“No, you don’t,” she said sharply. “You didn’t carry him. You didn’t spend months terrified of what he would look like and whether people would hate him for it before he even spoke his first word…”
“I am not criticizing your child.”
“You’re criticizing my life.”
“I’m criticizing the fact that the Empire has successfully tied your survival to theirs so tightly that now every decision you make must pass through the question of your child’s safety first.”
“Of course it does! You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t wake up every morning terrified that one day someone will look at him and only see the Empire in his face?”
“Oh, (Y/N).”
“I love him so much it feels like being skinned alive,” she admitted softly. “And sometimes I look at him and all I can think is that they’ve won.”
“They haven’t won.”
“That sounds like something rebels tell themselves before they die.”
“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes it’s also true. I’ll go with you.”
“To Lothal?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t.”
“I can,” he said calmly. “The cultural attaché position gives me sufficient justification to accompany the Batonnese royal household during New Year observances.”
“This isn’t a cultural visit.”
“No,” he agreed. “Which is exactly why you should not go there alone.”
“Lothal is dangerous.”
“Coruscant is more.”
“This could pull you directly into military scrutiny.”
“I am already under scrutiny.”
“Fine,” she said “but we must be careful.”
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
They went to the hanger the next day, deciding that it would be better to leave earlier in order to avoid anymore ISB officers who were actively investigating them on Coruscant. At least the ISB headquarters were not on Lothal.
Both times the hangar had been the ordinary kind of Imperial facility, functional and grey and occupied by the maintenance staff and the standard two-person security rotation that the building's administrative protocol required.
It was not the ordinary kind today.
She came through the hangar entrance with (c/n) in the carrier against her chest and Irtur at her left with the diplomatic case and luggage. Uiona walked behind them with her own luggage case.
Eight Imperial security officers, not the standard residential rotation, in the full security detail configuration, the armoring, the ISB adjacent insignia that was not quite ISB but was adjacent to it in the way that indicated a mandate that came from above the building administration, from somewhere that had decided that the Grand Admiral's wife and infant son traveling to Lothal required a different kind of escort than the building's standard two-person rotation provided.
“Senator Gernoh,” The senior officer said as he stepped forward.
"Officer," she said. Warm. Even. "I was not informed of an escort."
"The Grand Admiral arranged it this morning, Senator," he said. "Through the household security office. Given what occurred on your last transit, the incident in the outer rim, the Grand Admiral felt it appropriate to ensure your journey to Lothal proceeded without incident."
"Of course. How thoughtful of the Grand Admiral."
The senior officer inclined his head.
The ship was not the transport she had been expecting — the standard household shuttle, the grey one that V3PO had confirmed through the household office two days ago. This was larger. Imperial configuration. The specific model she associated with senior officer transit rather than civilian household arrangements.
She looked at Irtur.
Irtur was looking at the ship.
"Ambassador Irtur," the senior officer said, "The Grand Admiral has also arranged accommodation for your party aboard the transport. The cultural attaché function during New Year observances on Lothal was noted in the household documentation."
"How thorough," Irtur said pleasantly.
"The Grand Admiral is thorough," the officer said.
"Yes," Irtur said. "He is."
"Shall we board," she said. To the officer. To the hangar.
"When you're ready, Senator," he said.
She walked into ship and found her own cabin and left her son with Uiona before knocking on knocked on Irtur's cabin door twice.The door opened.
Irtur was still in the formal coat. He had not sat down, which told her he had been standing in his cabin since boarding.
"This is not good," she said, closing the door.
"No," he said. "It is not. This is not a household shuttle, we are being watched."
The engine vibrations hummed low beneath the floor. Somewhere outside the cabin walls she could hear the muted movement of officers preparing for departure. (c/n) was with Uiona three cabins down. She hated being separated from him even by that distance now.
“He knows something,” she said quietly.
Irtur leaned against the edge of the table, arms folded. “The question is how much.”
“He told me directly that he knows I am not entirely aligned with Imperial interests.”
“He said forcing me further into a corner would be strategically unwise.”
“And you are only telling me this now? You should have started with it.”
“I know that now.”
“He’s either warning you,” Irtur said carefully, “or he’s informing you that he has chosen not to act yet.”
“Do you think he knows about the maps?”
“No.”
“The shipments?”
“No.”
“The bombing?”
“He may suspect proximity,” he admitted quietly. “Thrawn is not stupid, (Y/N). He notices patterns. He notices when financial audits appear around the same people repeatedly.”
“He said he was protecting me.”
“Yes,” Irtur said flatly. “I believe he probably thinks he is.”
“If he were cruel this would all be so much easier.”
The ship shuddered faintly as departure clearance finalized. Then Irtur spoke again, quieter this time.
“This marriage does not end with both of you growing old together. You know that.”
“I know,” she said quietly. Hearing the harsh reality made her look down at her feet before she looked back at him, “there is one more thing. Gret.”
The name sat heavily between them.
“He was questioned already,” she continued. “The audits are escalating. We are now under military escort. The ISB will pull Gret again…”
“He’ll break.”
Irtur closed his eyes briefly. And when he opened them again she already knew they had arrived at the same conclusion separately.
“We cannot move him again,” she whispered.
“No.”
“We kill him,” she said. The words felt unreal in her mouth.Not because she had never thought violent thoughts before. Batonn had burned those illusions out of her long ago. But because saying it aloud transformed it into something material.
“Yes,” he said.
Her eyes closed.
“He cannot survive another interrogation,” Irtur said carefully. “And neither can we.”
“I hate what this is turning me into.”
“No,” he said quietly. “This is what occupation turns people into. There is a difference.”
A son arrives, and (Y/N) must do what she must in order to protect his future, even if it means betraying Thrawn.
Masterlist, Part 25
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
It was not long after the gala that Irtur was questioned.
A message came through the household communication channel at the sixth hour, routed through the cultural attaché's office in the way that had become their established method.
“The ISB called me in yesterday. Routine, they said. I am not certain Gret will hold.”
She read it twice, then deleted it.
They were walking through one of the upper promenade corridors near the Senate district, moving at the measured pace expected of two people who belonged there.
“What did they ask?”
“The bombing. The northern territories. My whereabouts during the week before the attack.” He glanced at her. “And Gret, my alibi.”
"How long did they have him?" she asked.
"Two hours. They were careful about it. Framed as background verification for the cultural attaché appointment. Nothing that named what they were actually asking about."
“And what were they asking about?”
"They were asking about my associations. My travel patterns. The meetings I have taken in the past three months. They were asking about you."
She absorbed this and looked ahead at the shop lights.
"He didn't give them anything," Irtur said. "Not yet. But he is young and not built for this. I should have never brought him but I needed him."
She was called in four days later. She was led into the white interrogation room. An officer whose voice never changed volume laid the datapad carefully flat on the table between them.
"Senator (Y/N) Geronh of Batonn.”
"Yes, that is me," she said warmly.
“Were you aware of dissident activity within the northern territories prior to the attack?”
“No.”
“Did Ambassador Marc Irtur ever express sympathy toward insurgent elements?”
“No.”
“Were you aware of unauthorized movement of explosives through Batonnese trade channels?”
“No.”
Again and again and again. She remembered the footage Irtur had sent her. She had not seen it until after the gala,she had watched it in the apartment on the grey sofa with Jankie on her feet and V3PO in the next room and had sat with what she had seen for a very long time after.
The smoke. The specific Batonnese smoke hiding faces she did not recognize and faces she did.
He asked three more questions. She answered all of them with the same composed accuracy, giving him what was technically true and nothing that was not, and she did not let her left hand move.
She went back to her apartment alone that day with V3PO meeting her almost immediately at the door.
“Your Majesty,” the droid said, “you have received a delivery.”
(Y/N) removed her gloves slowly. “From whom?”
“Grand Admiral Thrawn, your majesty.”
V3PO presented the box with careful formality. It was black lacquer, understated in the expensive way Imperial things often were. Inside, resting against dark velvet, was a pair of earrings. They were a deep sapphire and not large nor ostentatious. Elegant enough that she immediately understood he had selected them personally rather than delegating the task.
“They arrived approximately two hours ago,” V3PO informed her. “The Grand Admiral included a message.”
(Y/N) picked up the card.
“For the Senate reception next week. I believed this colour would suit you.”
And somewhere beneath that, still trapped under everything else, the Emperor’s voice lingered like poison. “Do not disappoint me.”
She sat in her pod, waiting for the senate to convene. Governor Restos had informed her that he would not be on Coruscant for this session, that he had other matters to attend to.
Irtur came through the pod’s door and sat down next to her, she didn’t turn to look at him for she recognized the pattern of his footfalls and how his left leg always fell heavier than his right.
“New earrings?” Irtur leaned back slightly in the Senate pod chair, looking out over the vast chamber below them where senators drifted into their assigned sections. Aids moved between pods carrying datapads and revised agenda schedules. Somewhere across the chamber a trade representative from the Mid Rim was already arguing with someone before the session had even begun.
“Yes.”
“From him?”
“Yes.”
“Very thoughtful,” he said dryly.
She almost smiled but didn’t quite manage it.
"They're careful," she said. "They're not naming what they know. Which means they're not certain yet."
“Gret…”
"Will be handled," she said. "Not harmed. Moved. There are people in the Paeragosto district who will bring him to a place where the ISB will not look.”
"The survey maps," she said now in Batonnese, “I have a plan. They're sending new officers into the outer rim. I know this from the Senate. New contractors, new oversight personnel. They're specifically being assigned to mineral extraction oversight. Which means they have new sites. Sites they haven't begun on yet. The northern territories aren't the ceiling, they're the beginning.”
Irtur was very still.
"There are survey maps," she said. "Geological surveys of Batonn, commissioned through the sector administration eighteen months ago. I've seen references to them in the resource allocation documentation. They have identified extraction sites across the planet that haven't been touched yet. Sites in the Veyruun lowlands. If those maps are destroyed before the new officers arrive to act on them, those sites cannot be efficiently located without beginning the survey process again from the beginning. Which takes time. And time is…"
"A resource."
"Yes."
He looked at her.
"The survey maps are held in the sector administration registry,the digital record."
"I know," she said.
"That is not a simple thing to destroy."
"No, it isn’t. I can't get near the sector registry," she said. "But you have the cultural attaché appointment. The administrative access that comes with it."
"Limited access."
"Sufficient access," she said, "to someone who knows what they're looking for. Ugh, I hate these people. Every time I sit across from someone in that building and smile and say of course, how reasonable, I am seeing the footage. I am seeing Batonn"
Irtur held very still.
"Destroy the maps," she said.
"I will," he said.
"There's something else," he said, after a moment.
She waited.
"The ships," he said. "The transport schedule for the doonium. The routing we couldn't read."
"Yes."
He slowed slightly, dropping his voice further beneath the ambient noise. "Clvtorig found it. If someone were to interrupt their transfer…Someone would need a ship and people who know how to handle one. And the specific codes to access the transfer window without triggering the alert protocols."
"Which Clvtorig has."
"Which Clvtorig has," he confirmed.
"The cost?"
"Significant, the kind of operation requires payment upfront. Equipment, personnel, fuel. The kind of credits that don't come from a senate allowance."
She thought about her accounts. The household allowance, the governance funds, the senate stipend. The specific amounts, the specific access points.
"How much?"
He told her.
“I’ll need a cover story. I’ll say that i’m acquiring art for the Batonnese diaspora art collection. It's already documented. The amounts are consistent with high-value artifact purchases.”
They were silent for a moment before he spoke again.
“This gets dangerous very quickly,” he said.
“I know.”
“No,” he said quietly, “I don’t think you fully do.”
She didn’t answer immediately. Because she did understand. The footage from Batonn still lived behind her eyes every time she closed them. The smoke. The ruined streets. The bodies beneath flags.
The Senate chamber lights shifted another degree brighter as more pods moved into position around them.Then Irtur looked at her again. At the sapphire earrings catching the white Coruscanti light each time she moved her head.
“Take those off.”
She blinked slightly. “What?”
“The earrings.” His voice remained calm, but there was something hard underneath it now. “Take them off.”
Her hand moved instinctively toward one of them.
“Lord Irtur…”
“You’re sitting here discussing sabotage operations while wearing jewelry sent to you by the man tasked with maintaining Imperial control of the outer rim. Do you understand how insane that is?”
Her fingers closed around the cool sapphire.
“They’re just earrings.”
“No,” he said. “They’re not. They’re a reminder. A very expensive, very elegant reminder of exactly where you live now and who is watching you while you try to convince yourself you still belong somewhere else.”
“This is unfair.”
“Is it?”
“I’m not saying he doesn’t care about you,” he said finally. “I think he probably does. In the way he knows how.” That hurt more than if he had insulted Thrawn outright. “But you cannot do this halfway anymore. You cannot help organize resistance operations while still allowing yourself to be soothed by gifts that make all of this feel survivable.”
Slowly, she removed one earring. Then the other. Below them, the Senate session began with applause.
It rolled through the Senate chamber in waves, polite and mechanical and endless. Somewhere across the floor a representative from Kuat had begun speaking.
Irtur was still looking at her.
Then, very quietly, with something dangerously close to disbelief:
“Oh my.”
She looked at him.
“(Y/N)… do you love him?”
She looked away from him almost immediately, down toward the Senate floor below them where people were speaking about tariffs and shipping routes and pretending the galaxy was not burning at its edges.
“What kind of question is that?”
“I thought this was survival,” he said carefully. “I thought this was adaptation. Political intelligence. I thought you were enduring him because enduring him was necessary.”
“And what if I was?”
“You just took those earrings off like it hurt. I am very good at reading women, (Y/N).”
He stared at her another second and then leaned back slightly in the chair like the realization itself had physically unsettled him.
“Oh, stars.”
“Stop.”
“You love him.”
“I said stop.” But there was no force in it now. Only exhaustion.
“The Grand Admiral.” He almost laughed, “The architect of Batonn.”
“He is not only that.”
Irtur looked at her with an expression she could not fully bear to meet because it wasn’t judgment. Judgment would have been easier. Instead it was grief.
“For you?” he asked quietly.
“He…” Her voice failed briefly. “He tries.”
Irtur closed his eyes for a moment, “That may actually be worse.”
If Thrawn had been cruel, this would have been simple. If he had treated her like property, like spectacle, like punishment, she could have built hatred cleanly around herself and lived inside it. Instead, he sent her earrings because he noticed what colors she stopped to look at in shop windows. He stood too close to her when he thought she was frightened, as though proximity itself was protection. And somewhere along the way, against every reasonable instinct she possessed, she had begun to love him in the quiet disastrous way people sometimes loved things that were destined to destroy them, or had already destroyed them.
For a while neither of them spoke.(Y/N) stared at the sapphires resting in her palm. Finally, Irtur spoke again.
“Does he know?”
“Thrawn notices everything, but no I do not think he knows.”
“And you?” he asked. “Did you know before now?”
“I think,” she said slowly, “I kept hoping it would stop before I had to name it.”
Irtur leaned back in the chair and looked briefly toward the ceiling like he was asking his gods for patience.
“If you love him then every time we discuss the maps or the shipments or the mining operations, part of you is thinking about him finding out. And every time he looks at you, you’re wondering whether you’re betraying him.”
“I am betraying him.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “You are.”
The Senate applauded again below them for something neither of them had heard.
“Do you think anyone will mention the Chandrilan?”
“No, I think they’ll pretend that it didn’t even happen,” (Y/N) responded
Below them, another senator began speaking about shipping tariffs in the Core Worlds while aides drifted between pods carrying revised motions and budget amendments. The machinery continued.
“She was one of them,” she said quietly. “One of the most visible senators in the galaxy and they’re just…”
“Continuing?” Irtur finished. “Yes.”
(Y/N) suddenly understood why Irtur had looked at her the way he had after she admitted she loved Thrawn. Because this was the structure he belonged to.
“I keep thinking about Batonn,” she admitted softly.
“The footage?”
“Yes, and the gala was part of it. Me standing there as a pawn while Palpatine talked about mercy.”
She looked down at them again, at the earrings in her hand. The word mercy now sounded like something rotten.
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
The third trimester arrived the way difficult things arrived which was not suddenly but as though it had always been coming and she had simply been too occupied with everything else to fully account for the approach.
Dr. Thalias adjusted the protocol at the beginning of the seventh month. More rest. Reduced Senate commitments. The governance correspondence to be managed from the apartment rather than the Senate building where the corridors were long and the sessions were longer.
She reduced the Senate sessions but did not reduce everything else.
Imperial women spoke with polished curiosity that disguised cruelty beneath etiquette. Batonnese delegates were worse because their discomfort carried grief inside it.
‘The child.’ One of them said it with the register of a woman handling a concept she was not entirely certain how to categorize. ‘Chiss and human. Do you think it will look like him or like her?’
‘I think it will look like neither,’ the other said. ‘That is generally how it works, isn't it. They never quite look like either.’
They spoke in front of her, as though she were not even there.
She had sent Irtur the question in the careful language they used for things that could not be said directly. He had responded in the same language:
‘The clans will accept what they are given. The question is how it is presented.’
She had read this and had not found it comforting.
If the child inherited his eyes, the impossible burning red of them, then every room the child entered for the rest of its life would react before the child even spoke.She knew what the Empire did to visible difference. Thrawn survived it because he was brilliant enough to weaponize their underestimation of him. Some days she felt so overwhelmed by terror that she could barely breathe properly.
The bombing investigation did not close.
The ISB sent a follow-up communication in the eighth month, a formal notification that the review was ongoing and that additional documentation might be requested.
Irtur had destroyed the geological survey maps. He told her in careful language, three weeks after the fact, that the sector administration registry had experienced a targeted data loss in the geological resource division and that the reconstruction timeline was estimated at eighteen months minimum.
Thrawn called from the Chimaera at irregular intervals.
The calls were formal in the way that communications conducted through Imperial channels were required to be formal.
She received the calls in her office.
He said, on the call in the eighth month: "You look tired."
She said: "I am in the third trimester. Looking well is a variable outcome."
He held her gaze through the transmission.
He said: "I will be back before the delivery."
She said: "Dr. Thalias estimates three weeks."
He said: "I know."
She said: "Then you know the timeline."
He said: "Yes."
"Goodnight," she said.
"Goodnight," he said.
The transmission ended. She sat in her office in the Coruscant apartment at the whatever hour it was and she held the image of his face in the blue-white light and she breathed. Jankie jumped onto her lap. She rested her hand along her back.
The depression came the way the third trimester came. She did not tell Dr. Thalias. She did not tell Uiona, though Uiona knew. Uiona did not ask her to be other than what she was.
Uiona sat with her in the evenings when she could not read and could not work and could not do anything except sit on the grey sofa in the apartment that she had lived in long enough that it was the closest available approximation of a home and look at the Coruscant night through the window.
A message from Lady Sereth came in the ninth month.
It was brief and in careful language and said only: The boy continues to improve. He asks for you.
She did not sleep well that night.
It happened during the afternoon, quietly.
(Y/N) had been trying to nap but found herself stressing over investigations out of her control. She pushed herself from the bed and was making her way to the door when suddenly she stopped. Pain hit so suddenly that breath vanished from her lungs entirely.
She stopped walking immediately. For one confused second she genuinely thought something inside her had torn.
Her hand slammed against the wall beside her.
“Oh…”
She bent forward sharply, breathing too fast already as pain radiated through her abdomen and down her spine. She was crying before she fully realized it.
“V3PO!” Her voice cracked violently,“V3PO!”
The silver droid appeared almost immediately from the corridor beyond the dining room.
“Your Majesty?”
“I think…” She sucked in a breath sharply as another contraction hit. “I think it’s happening.”
The droid froze for precisely half a second. Then every protocol in activated simultaneously.
“I am contacting the medical team immediately,” V3PO said rapidly. “Please attempt to remain calm…”
“I am calm,” she snapped through tears. Another contraction hit and she nearly folded in half “I am not calm.”
The life of a queen.
The birthing suite was on the upper medical level. It had large windows, Coruscant windows, the kind that looked out on the city's middle atmosphere, all light and traffic and the geometric density of a planet that had replaced all its natural features with constructed ones.
She asked for Uiona immediately. Uiona came within four minutes which was faster than the medical team, which meant she had also been on standby, which she had arranged herself without being asked, which was the most Uiona thing that had ever happened.
"You are doing well," Dr. Thalias said.
"You keep saying that," she said, through a contraction that was erasing her ability to form complete sentences.
"Because it remains accurate," Dr. Thalias said. "And because it is true that you are doing well and I intend to keep saying it."
"Tell me something," she said, to Uiona. Between the contractions.
"About what?"
“About home.”
Uiona sat beside her while Coruscant glowed cold and gold beyond the windows. Between contractions, she spoke quietly about Batonn in the springtime. The lowlands after rain. The sound of the sea striking the cliffs beneath the western monasteries. Orange lanterns during festival nights. The smell of cedar smoke from the mountain clans. She kept speaking even when (Y/N) could no longer answer properly, her voice becoming something steady to hold onto while pain tore through her in waves sharp enough to empty the room of everything else.
Hours later, with Dr. Thalias instructing calmly beside her and Uiona gripping one of her hands hard enough to bruise, the child finally entered the world in one sudden devastating moment that knocked a cry from her throat and left the room ringing with silence before another sound replaced it. An infant’s cry. Thin. Furious. Alive. She was crying before they even placed him in her arms. Blue skin. Tiny red eyes squeezed shut against the light. So impossibly small that fear moved through her immediately, violent in its intensity. She held him against her chest.
The weight of a crown was nothing compared to the weight of the child in her arms.
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
Three days later, Thrawn returned to Coruscant. The apartment had been quieter since the birth. Not peaceful exactly. Softer. The medical staff came and went with controlled efficiency. Uiona had remained. V3PO moved through the apartment with increased volume suppression protocols after accidentally waking the infant twice during the first night.
(Y/N) was half asleep in the bed when the apartment doors opened. She knew his footsteps immediately. The footsteps of a man who never rushed even when he should.
The nursery lights were dim. Coruscant evening stretched gold beyond the windows. Thrawn paused in the doorway before entering fully. For the first time since she had known him, he looked uncertain.
His eyes found her first. Then the child in her arms.
“You returned quickly, though not when expected.” she said softly.
“No,” He said as he moved closer to the bed slowly, like someone approaching something potentially dangerous. The infant stirred lightly against her chest. Thrawn stopped beside the bed and looked down at his son.
All the terrifying composure of Grand Admiral Thrawn seemed, for one fractional second, to fail him completely.
The child looked unmistakably Chiss. Blue skin, though softer in tone than Thrawn’s. Red eyes that tracked movement with startling alertness whenever they opened. Only small things belonged visibly to her: the shape of his mouth, the curve of his nose, the faint structure of her family somewhere beneath all the Chissness of him.
“He looks like you,” she said quietly.
"Yes," he said. Quietly. "He does."
"Do you want to hold him?"
He looked at her.
"Yes," he said.
She shifted (c/n) carefully and held him out and she watched Thrawn receive his son for the first time.
One of his hands supported the child’s head automatically, the other beneath the small body with the control of someone accustomed to handling fragile and dangerous things simultaneously. (c/n) made a small sound of protest at being moved, his tiny face tightening briefly before settling against the white fabric of Thrawn’s uniform.
She caught herself looking then turned away, because for one dangerous second the image had felt almost gentle. It was too peaceful, and peace was a word that the empire used when they really meant submission.
He is the enemy.
The thought arrived with the force of something rehearsed too many times to still feel natural. The man who had stood beneath Imperial banners while her planet burned under the logic of order and necessity and strategy. The man whose victories filled Senate speeches and military academies and mass graves. And yet he held the baby like he was afraid of harming him.
(c/n) stirred again, one tiny blue hand pressing weakly against the front of Thrawn’s uniform. She hated how much it hurt to watch. This was the contradiction she could no longer survive cleanly inside.
“You should sit,” she said quietly, because it was easier than saying anything else.
Thrawn glanced toward her briefly before sitting in the chair beside the bed with the same controlled precision he brought to everything. But once seated, the control seemed to loosen around the edges. Not disappear. Never disappear. Just… change.
Very softly, in Cheunh, he said something she did not understand. The words settled low and quiet in the room.
“What did you say?” she asked.
Thrawn looked up from the child.
“A Chiss phrase,” he said after a pause. “It does not translate directly.”
“Try.”
“It means,” he said carefully, his gaze lowered back toward (c/n). “You are known to me.”
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
Irtur arrived on the sixth day, at a time where he knew Thrawn would not be present.
He came through the door with the bearing she knew, the way of moving through spaces that was part of how his family had governed their province for two hundred years. He was in the formal diplomatic dress, which meant he had been somewhere official before this and had not changed. Or he had changed specifically because he was being careful.
He was also carrying flowers so aggressively expensive that she immediately understood they had been chosen specifically to irritate Imperial sensibilities.
“They’re from Naboo,” he informed her while handing them to V3PO. “Apparently Coruscanti flowers are bred for symmetry rather than scent.”
“You are becoming increasingly insufferable,” she muttered from the bed.
“Yes, but now I’m doing it professionally.”
(c/n) was asleep against her chest beneath a soft blanket when Irtur finally sat down at the chair near her bed, the same chair Thrawn sat in the day before. The humor faded from his expression almost immediately once he looked at the child properly.
“He looks like you,” he said quietly.
“No, he doesn’t,” She said with almost a laugh, as though she knew he was attempting to give her a white lie.
“He does.”
“He looks exactly like Thrawn.”
Irtur shook his head slightly. "That’s not what I said. The mouth is yours, so is the nose. The way his brow sits. The shape of his eyes."
She looked down at (c/n) automatically. Blue skin. Dark blue hair already beginning to show at the crown of his head. Red eyes hidden now beneath sleep heavy lids. She could not find herself anywhere in him.
“I don’t see it.”
“You’re tired,” he said carefully. His expression softening into concern.
“You’re tired,” he said carefully.
“I’m fine.”
“That was not what I said either.”
She looked away from him toward the Coruscant skyline beyond the apartment windows. There were whispers already. Imperials fascinated by the novelty of the child. Batonnese delegates speaking in lowered voices about bloodlines and conquest and symbols. She heard things even when people tried not to let her hear them. They called him Thrawn’s son, as though she had disappeared from the equation entirely.
“When can you train again?” Irtur asked suddenly.
She blinked at him. “What?”
“Physical training. Self-defense.”
“Irtur, I gave birth six days ago.”
“Yes.”
“And your immediate response to that is combat preparation?”
“Defensive preparation,” he corrected calmly.
She let out a short laugh. “I can barely walk down the hallway without feeling like my organs are rearranging themselves.”
“That will improve.”
“Oh, good. Wonderful.”
Irtur leaned forward slightly, elbows against his knees now, his voice lowering beneath the soft apartment lighting.
“(Y/N), listen to me.”
Something in his tone made her still.
“We are past the point where caution alone protects us,” he said quietly. “The investigations are still active. Clvtorig is operating against Imperial supply routes. The mining delays will eventually be noticed. And if anything goes wrong…”
“It won’t.”
“You do not know that.”
(c/n) shifted lightly against her chest. Instinctively she rested a hand against his back. Causing Irtur to watch the movement before continuing.
“You have a child now,” he said softly. “Which means you cannot afford helplessness anymore.”
The words landed hard because part of her already feared they were true.
“I am not asking you to become a soldier,” he continued. “I am asking you to know how to survive long enough to escape a room if survival becomes necessary.”
“I am not strong, my Lord and here you are telling me to be a fighter.”
“I think the Empire survives by eventually discovering everything.” He held her gaze. “And I think we need to be ready for the day it discovers us.”
Before she could answer, the apartment doors opened somewhere down the corridor. All three of them recognized the footsteps immediately: Precise, Even, Unhurried.
Irtur leaned back into the chair, rearranging himself socially at dangerous speed just as Thrawn entered the bedroom still in uniform. His eyes moved first to her, then to the child, and then finally to Irtur.
“Ambassador,” Thrawn said.
“Grand Admiral.” Irtur’s mouth curved faintly. “Good to see that this meeting is occurring under significantly less awkward bathroom circumstances than the last one.”
(Y/N) closed her eyes briefly.
“I was unaware you considered that encounter awkward.”
“You entered a locked bathroom during an Imperial gala immediately after the Emperor threatened your wife personally,” Irtur replied. “Some cultures would classify that as memorable.”
“Reasonable,” Thrawn said.
It startled a laugh out of her before she could stop it, causing both men looked toward her immediately.
“Irtur, you are acting like a child.”
“An encouraging sign,” Irtur replied. “You sound more alive today.”
Thrawn stepped closer to the bed then, his attention settling briefly on (c/n) asleep against her chest.
“He has remained calm?” he asked.
“He screams primarily at droids and medical scans,” she said. “So yes.”
“A promising beginning.”
Irtur rose from the chair slowly, adjusting the sleeves of his coat.
“Before I leave,” he said, turning toward Thrawn with exaggerated diplomatic formality, “congratulations on the child, Grand Admiral.”
Thrawn inclined his head once. “Thank you.”
Irtur moved toward the apartment doors with the easy elegance of someone long accustomed to leaving rooms before conversations became dangerous. At the doorway he paused and looked back once toward her. Something unspoken passed briefly across his face. Concern. Affection. Fear. All of it carefully buried before he inclined his head.
“Your Majesty.”
“Ambassador.”
Then he looked toward Thrawn.
“Grand Admiral.”
“Ambassador.”
And then he was gone.
The apartment quieted immediately after the doors sealed behind him.
Thrawn stood very still for a moment.
“There has been a development on Lothal.”
The words changed the air in the room instantly.
“What kind of development?”
“Rebel activity.” A pause. “More organized than previously estimated.”
Of course it was. The galaxy was burning faster now. Everyone could feel it.
“And you have to leave.”
“Yes.”
“How soon?”
“Immediately.”
Something painful moved through her chest, though she had known from the moment he arrived that his presence here was temporary. Men like Thrawn did not belong to homes. They belonged to campaigns and war rooms and distant systems lit red on tactical maps.
Still, she smiled at him softly.
“Duty calls, Grand Admiral.”
“Yes,” he said.For the first time since entering the apartment, something in his expression altered faintly.
Thrawn stepped closer to the bed again, his gaze lowering briefly toward his son before returning to her.
“If conditions stabilize,” he said carefully, “I will send for you.”
“To Lothal?”
“If it is sufficiently secure.”
There was no such thing anymore. Not really. But the fact that he was offering at all twisted painfully through her. Because part of her wanted to go. Which felt like its own betrayal.
“And if it isn’t safe?” she asked.
“Then you will remain here.”
Thrawn looked at her for another long moment, like there was something else he intended to say and was deciding against it.Then he reached down very carefully and touched two fingers briefly against (c/n)’s small head.
“I will contact you upon arrival,” he said.
The silence that followed settled softly between them. (c/n) slept against her chest completely unaware that the galaxy outside this apartment was held together by war and fear and people making impossible choices. One tiny blue hand remained curled loosely against the blanket. Thrawn looked at the child once more before his eyes returned to her.
“You should rest,” he said quietly.
“You always say that like it’s an order.”
“Often it is.”
“That’s romantic.”
Something almost imperceptible shifted at the corner of his mouth. Then, after a brief hesitation unusual for him, he reached toward her slowly enough that she understood immediately he was giving her time to refuse.
She didn’t.
His hand settled lightly against the side of her face, thumb resting just beneath her cheekbone. The touch was careful. Reverent, almost. As though she were something more fragile now than she had been before.
“You are exhausted,” he said softly.
“I just created a person.”
“A valid explanation.”
She laughed quietly under her breath.
“You look tired too.”
“I have been informed the current condition is acceptable.”
“By whom?”
“You, approximately four months ago.”
She blinked once before remembering dimly saying something delirious and affectionate during a late-night holocall.
“That information should not have been retained.”
“I retain most things.”
“Yes, that’s part of the problem.”
His thumb moved once against her skin before he seemed to realize he was doing it.
Then very quietly, almost like the words surprised even him:
“I dislike leaving you here.”
Because he did not say things like that often. Not plainly. She looked at him for a long moment. The blue skin. The dangerous red eyes. The man she had once feared before somehow, disastrously, becoming this.
“You always leave.”
“Yes,” he said.
Without thinking, they both smiled. For one impossible second they looked like something ordinary. Something untouched by empires and rebellions and the terrible machinery of history waiting outside the apartment walls.
