Chapter Text
19 ABY
Trapper Wolf had once believed that he knew the Belderone sector like the back of his hand.
In his experienced years of patrolling the Outer Rim, his X-wing had carried him through a majority of the well-known systems that existed on the edges of the galaxy. For decades, he had become familiar with its planets, its stars, its asteroid fields, and most of all, he knew where the New Republic’s jurisdiction was most influential. Belderone was one of those broad stretches of space where he had been stationed on numerous occasions, and after consistently combing through it with his fellow pilots, he considered it to be one of the more secure sectors.
But that firm notion immediately vanished when he and his squadron exited hyperspace in the center of the sector. Not too far in the distance loomed an Imperial cruiser, drifting proudly through the vast emptiness as if the Empire had not fallen decades ago.
At first, Trapper was too distracted by the overwhelming urge to live the moment he laid eyes on the vessel to consider how little sense it made. An icy sensation traveled down his spine at the very likely possibility of being vaporized any second.
“Captain, do you copy?” Sash Ketter, his team member, urgently cut through his comms. “We need to get back into hyperspace. We’re out in the open and heavily outgunned.”
“Yes, I copy,” he said.
Realistically, he knew that the Imperial ship could disintegrate them all before they could blink. He knew that they should take those spare moments they were given and speed to safety. But it still didn’t add up; why was an Imperial ship floating exposed and so carelessly close to planets that housed New Republic stations? If they had been more than five lone pilots, the view would have been a welcome one, a ripe prize for the taking.
In dangerous situations such as these, Trapper Wolf had developed quick instincts that he relied on in his years of flying. And all of his instincts pointed to a less obvious explanation.
“Wait, something is off here,” he told his squad.
“Yeah, we’re about to die!” another pilot panicked. “They’re going to open fire, and we’re still here!”
However, as Trapper realized, “They haven’t fired on us yet.”
There was no possibility that their X-wings had not displayed on the cruiser’s radar, and given their antagonists’ history of murdering New Republic sympathizers on sight, they should have been dead by then. Perhaps the Imperials were preoccupied, but by what? With a frown, Trapper reached for a button on his control panel to scan for other nearby ships. The beacon that emitted from the Imperial ship was coupled by a much smaller gunship docked underneath. It had an unknown register, but definitely did not belong to the Empire.
“My radar is showing a ship docked on the cruiser. Can anyone else confirm?” he asked.
After a pause, there was a static crackle followed by a response. “Affirmative, Captain. I’m picking up that same signal.”
“They must be under attack,” Sash stated. “They certainly wouldn’t let any outside ship onboard. Besides, like you said, they would have scattered us by now.”
Trapper weighed his options. This was an opportune find, too useful to pass up. They could not simply let such a massive craft escape, under attack or not.
“Jib, call in backup,” he finally said. “We need to get onboard that cruiser and attempt to stop it before whoever is inside even thinks about jumping into hyperspace.”
“Roger that.”
The captain shook his head, almost unbelieving that they were going to attempt such a risky operation—but the reward would be too generous. “All right, squad. On me. We’re going to approach in our Delta formation so that we are harder to hit if they do decide to shoot,” he explained. “We need to get into that hangar quickly.”
The five X-wings engaged their thrusters and swerved their way in an unpredictable manner towards the Imperial light cruiser. On the way in, they only spotted the gunship that had appeared on each of their radars parked beneath.
They did not notice the Razor Crest II docked on the other end, as it scrambled any signal it was supposed to produce.
Inside the spacious Imperial vessel, Din Djarin and his Mandalorian fire team swiftly conquered the bridge. They had taken the rest of the ship with relative ease, as the Empire had not suspected the attack; Din had a theory that they hardly ever did given how poorly they always fought back.
The six Mandalorians were able to capture the two remaining officers on the bridge without a stray blaster shot giving them the easy way out. While they wrestled them into binders, Din stepped forward, over the body of a fallen stormtrooper, to face the man at the head of the bridge.
“Moff Gideon,” he said.
The Moff turned away from the distant stars he had so calmly been facing, as if he was not awaiting his demise. A smirk curled at his lips, age pulling grotesquely on his features. “Ah,” he greeted. “Mand’alor. We meet again.”
Din disliked how mockingly the title came from his mouth. Although he had accepted his position as the ruler of Mandalore long ago, he could still harbor a grudge against the Imp who had knowingly stuck him with it.
Well, that was at the very bottom of the pile of grievances he had with the Empire.
“I heard of your escape from New Republic custody,” he remarked. “I’ve been hunting you for months.”
“I am surprised it took a skilled bounty hunter such as yourself this long to locate me,” Gideon retorted. “Although I suppose you have had other matters to apply yourself to that I was unaware of. I must admit that while I suspected your involvement in Mandalorian military command, I was not certain that you had indeed accepted your well-earned title until I intercepted your communications moments ago.”
Perhaps some part of Din recognized it in their cunning nature, but the Moff had been orchestrating attacks on Mandalore’s defensive fleet along the edges of their sector. Moff Gideon had found a sinister purpose in destroying their way of life as an ISB officer decades ago, and as the rivalry between Mandalorians and the Empire had escalated once again since the Reclamation of Mandalore began, he rather enjoyed reliving his days of the Purge. He found a sick satisfaction in massacring any of their kind that he could, after they had caused countless misfortunes for the Empire.
The two leaders had been combatting for months, whether or not the Mandalorian knew of his heavy involvement, and whether or not Gideon knew that Bo-Katan was a decoy ruler. However, the competition had reached its conclusion as Din held the Moff at blaster-point.
“We’ve got company,” Paz Vizsla warned as he watched several New Republic officers exit their parked X-wings on the security cameras. “Rebels. In the hangar.”
Always in the way, Din scoffed to himself. He considered all possible options of removing them from the equation. Unfortunately, there was only one way in and out of the bridge, so his team couldn’t simply seal themselves off in there. This meant that they were inevitably going to encounter the pilots.
Din knew they had to avoid shooting at them at all costs, or else the New Republic would send their military after Mandalore. The last thing he wanted to do was create another enemy when he was already at war with the Empire, and murdering a squad would certainly set off some alarms high up in the government.
“Let them go about their job,” he told the group, “and we will go about ours.”
The Mandalorians understood, and trained their weapons at the open doorway.
The halls were eerily noiseless as the New Republic squadron crept along, blaster rifles raised. Stormtroopers littered the floors more frequently the closer they got to the bridge. Apprehension built steadily in Trapper and his team as they glanced at the bodies, at the precise shots that had scorched through the white helmets and chest plates. Clearly, whatever soldiers had raided this cruiser were professionals. Especially since there could not have been more than a small group that had wiped out the Imperial guards, judging by the size of the docked ship.
“We’re out of our league here,” Sash hissed. “We should wait for reinforcements.”
Jib Dodger pointed out, “The reinforcements won’t be able to arrive if we don’t take control of the bridge. We don’t know where these pirates are taking the ship.”
“We don’t know if they’re taking it at all.” The lone female pilot sighed hotly. “This isn’t part of our job description. We should not have boarded.”
“What isn’t part of our job? Taking out Imperials? That sounds like what I signed up for.”
Trapper crouched and held up his hand in a fist when he reached a junction. The soldiers’ bickering fell silent as he peeked around the corner towards the bridge. There was nobody in direct sight, but there were faint voices traveling down the hallway. Even some sounds of struggling.
“I can’t see anyone from here. Let’s move up,” he ordered, motioning forward.
They took cautious steps down the hall, their guns aimed at the doorway that led to the bridge. Once the view of the bridge was clear, all five troopers froze at the sight of a fully-armored Mandalorian pinning what looked like a Moff down to the center console with a lengthy, metal spear.
And five other Mandalorians took the opportunity to step out from their positions along the walls within the room.
Trapper Wolf’s heart rate was erratic. The New Republic soldiers attempted to meet the barrels without a frightened appearance, but it was difficult to maintain composure when their eyes kept flitting up to the notorious T-shaped visors that belonged to the weapons' owners.
“I wouldn’t take another step if I were you,” a woman’s modulated voice threatened. Her pristine blue helmet tilted in a challenge.
They weren’t keen on the idea either. Truth be told, they were pilots. Although they were trained to defend themselves on the ground, they were primarily meant for space warfare, and they were out of their element facing off with Mandalorians—the greatest warriors in the galaxy.
Jib’s hand trembled slightly around his gun as he sputtered, “Stay back!”
Din glanced over at the doorway and saw that the situation was under control for now. He returned to his interrogation, keeping the Imperial commander’s throat trapped beneath his beskar staff.
“Who did you think was coordinating these strikes?” Moff Gideon chuckled, blood staining the edges of his mouth. Din was finding it impossible to stay patient. “I served on Mandalore during the Purge. I know that sector and its defenses better than you do.”
“You’re going to tell me where these weaknesses are catalogued in the Imperial system, or I am going to kill you right here,” the Mandalorian said lowly. “Reeves?”
Koska holstered her blaster and excused herself from the standoff. She approached one of the dashboards lining the bridge and began sifting through files to speed up the process. Gideon had no other choice but to offer up the location of what they wanted erased; they could purge the war plans all they wanted, since his strategies were imprinted in his mind anyway. He could exploit Mandalore’s weaknesses with or without the data.
As the Moff unwillingly aided Din and Koska in navigating the system, Trapper Wolf came to a startling conclusion as he focused on the scene behind the armed Mandalorians blocking the doorway. He recognized the Moff as being a top-priority target who had escaped custody not too long ago with the Empire's help.
“Hand over the prisoner!” he demanded. “He belongs to the New Republic!”
“Yeah?” Din said. “Not only are you empty-handed, but if I’m not mistaken, the New Republic’s incompetence is the reason he was freed in the first place.”
Something clicked for Trapper when the visor had turned its attention his way. Mandalorians had been a rare sight in the galaxy since the Purge, even after they had become emboldened by the war that ended the Empire’s occupation of Mandalore and restored their own ruler. He could count on his one hand the number of times he had encountered one of their kind, and he could have sworn that the gleam of unpainted, silver beskar armor was familiar. Something he could not have forgotten.
He recognized this Mandalorian. From where, he could not recall, but he would have to sort it out later. For now, he had to stall the armored soldiers. Backup would arrive in less than ten minutes.
Moff Gideon’s head swiveled between his captors and the pilots. Refusing to spend any more time on a New Republic prison ship, he urged Din, “Get me out of here safely, and I will give you more information.”
The Mandalorian was unconvinced. “I don’t know. Seems like you know too much to be left alive,” he remarked.
It sounded like that bargain was useless. Gideon scavenged his mind for anything that could buy him time. Self-preservation was his only motive at this point.
“Let the Moff go,” Trapper demanded. “Or you all will be charged with the crime of interfering with a New Republic arrest.”
On most people in the galaxy, the ultimatum would have worked efficiently and even left them quivering at the prospect of being a fugitive of the Republic. On Mandalorians...well, it only seemed to agitate them, if the way they assumed more proper fighting stances was anything to go by.
“We don’t take orders from anyone,” Paz spat.
A blaster fight was imminent as hostility swept through the room. In a last-ditch effort, Moff Gideon breathlessly pleaded, “Get me out of here, and I will tell you where the Child is.”
The Mand’alor’s helmet snapped away from the tense scene at the door to stare at the Moff. His gaze was piercing, even beneath the darkened visor. This was the desired reaction that the Moff recognized as an illuminated sign marking a weakness to exploit.
“Oh, you didn’t know?” Gideon laughed tauntingly. “I very recently happened to stumble upon the Jedi temple’s location after narrowing it down from a list of many other planets, and I was able to confirm it through surveillance. Did you think I would ever stop searching for him, for any of them?”
Every muscle in Din’s body was pulled taut. The Imp had been tracking Grogu’s position again, had been actively seeking out Force-sensitive children for their blood to perform his twisted experiments. His fists tightened around his spear when he recalled what he had seen in the Empire’s lab on Nevarro, the gnarled bodies hopelessly confined to tanks. He had separated himself from those memories for many years with the danger of such scientific procedures involving his kid no longer present with Gideon locked away and the Empire’s priorities lying elsewhere. But the enemy was back, and not only was he intent on finishing what he began, but he also was claiming to be aware of Grogu’s location. An immediate threat.
Din’s eyebrows pinched together beneath his helmet with silent conflict brewing. If he kept Moff Gideon alive, he could extract some valuable information about what the Empire was planning for Mandalore, about their experiments, about anything the enemy had to offer.
He could find out where Grogu was. He could see him again.
The Mandalorian shoved the thought from his mind to resist the overwhelming temptation.
“I’m the only one who knows,” Gideon added. “If you kill me, you lose that information.”
“What information?” Trapper called once the bridge was settled enough for him to overhear the conversation.
Conversely, it could be detrimental to leave the Moff alive. If he somehow fell into the hands of the New Republic or crime syndicates or anyone else, their planet’s secrets could be exposed. Grogu’s location could be exposed.
The decision came quickly after that realization. Nobody could find out where the kid was. And if that squandered the possibility of Din ever reuniting with him, he could accept that. The child’s safety came before anything else.
“You shouldn’t have told me that,” Din muttered.
The beskar staff cut off Gideon’s airway as he clawed for breath. His hands desperately clasped on to Din’s vambraces as he struggled beneath the weight crushing his windpipe.
“No! Let him go!” a New Republic pilot shouted. His gun moved in tune with his demand, which caused everyone else to stiffen defensively in turn.
But Din couldn’t hear anything aside from his own heartbeat clanging against his helmet and the choked gasps of Moff Gideon as he pressed downward with all of his imposing strength. Duty was much more of a driving factor than hatred for him, and he turned his visor aside as Gideon’s face lost the flush of blood beneath it, taking no pleasure in the kill. The two Imperial prisoners looked on, horrified that their fate might be similar.
“We’re warning you!” another pilot yelled. “You’ll face consequences if you kill him! You’ll regret this!”
What repercussions could they possibly hold over Din’s head? What could be worse than the Moff putting his child in danger?
No, he wouldn’t regret anything.
With one last swift and trained maneuver, Din snapped Moff Gideon’s neck to the side with a sharp crack that made the observing pilots flinch. The assassination didn’t take longer than seconds, yet the Rebel soldiers felt as if they had witnessed the brutal murder for several minutes. To Din, it felt like the years of rivalry were snatched away along with his breath.
As soon as Moff Gideon slumped to the floor, life stolen from his eyes, the bridge fell uncomfortably silent. Sweat beaded on Trapper’s forehead as he scrambled for a plan to trap the Mandalorians for just five more minutes. A plan that wouldn’t force his squadron to join the Moff wherever he was now.
The Mandalorians moved first, as they seemed unfazed by the vicious display. Din spoke once he had briefly caught his breath. “Did you get everything?” he asked.
Koska wiped the last file from the system before drawing her weapons and facing him with a nod. “It’s done,” she confirmed.
”Meg mhi nari ti aruetiise?” (What are we doing with the outsiders?) Paz questioned without budging an inch to even address his ruler over his shoulder.
Din slipped his staff into its designated place on his back and considered what to do with the New Republic pilots blocking their path. They would no doubt be sending reinforcements shortly, but his squad had already gotten more than what they came for. The only challenging part would be getting past the soldiers without a fatal brawl breaking out. He would not allow his own fire team to turn the confrontation violent—well, more than it had already gotten. However, according to the fear lacing the eyes of their opposition, they were not eager to fire the first blaster shot either.
Jib had cocked his head at the sound of the unknown language. The Mandalorians all twitched in response to the potential threat they saw in the movement.
”Udesii,” (Easy.) Din snapped. And to answer Paz’s question, he added, ”Nayc tal’galar.” (Do not spill blood.)
Then he took the initiative in leading the Mandalorians from the bridge. Without a weapon in his hands, he strode toward the Rebel pilots. They tried to seem intimidating by training their blaster rifles closer on him as he approached, but he was undeterred, and they nearly shriveled under his gaze. In fact, they even stepped back to make way for him.
All five pilot helmets donned with the symbol of the New Republic shifted back and forth as the soldiers looked around at each other for any instructions on what to do. It was technically up to Trapper Wolf to decide their course of action, but he was unsure about the protocol for such a stalemate.
Well, now they had solid charges to arrest the Mandalorians with, even footage to accompany them on their way to prison. His team was going to be left with the Imperial cruiser, which they could scavenge for their own useful information. If they were lucky, maybe the helmeted warriors would not make it far before they were apprehended by the reinforcements.
Most of all, he did not want his squadron to die needlessly. And they would if this came down to a firefight. Their opportunity to catch the Mandalorians for their serious crimes would come, but it would not be that day.
“Let them pass,” Trapper eventually declared, as if the opposition was not already filing off the bridge.
The pilots lowered their blaster rifles. Still, the two Mandalorians flanking the group of six—and their Imperial prisoners—kept their own weapons raised distrustfully to cover them all as they retreated. As soon as they were out of sight, the New Republic soldiers all shared a relieved sigh and relaxed their postures.
“Did that actually just happen?” Sash asked in disbelief.
“Quiet,” Trapper said. Tapping his wrist comm to contact the incoming fleet, he found that his hands were embarrassingly unsteady. “Falcon 1-9, this is Trapper Wolf. What’s your ETA?”
The comm beeped as the reinforcements hailed the captain. “We are two minutes out, sir. Leaving hyperspace momentarily, over.”
He pressed his lips together disappointedly. There was a slim window for them to intercept the Mandalorians, but it was worth a shot. “There is an unregistered ship that is attempting to escape any second. Keep an eye out for it, and stop it if you can.”
“Roger that.”
Din was anticipating this ambush, and as soon as his fire team arrived at the junction where they would split, he urged them to hurry. He took Paz, Koska, and one of the captured Imperials and headed for the docking ring where the Razor Crest was waiting. They boarded quickly, Din breaking from the cruiser just as Paz shoved the officer into the carbon freezer down below.
“Mand’alor, do you copy?” called the voice of Jad, who was flying the other ship. He was young and inexperienced as far as special operations went, but Din tended to bring along at least one novice out in the field to hunt Imps when he could.
“We made it,” the Mandalorian confirmed. He trailed behind Jad and the others to ensure that they were not being followed. “Safe travels. See you on Mandalore.”
“Copy that, ” Jad said, grinning triumphantly. “Jumping into hyperspace in three, two—oh shit!”
The young Mandalorian panicked and dove to avoid the incoming fleet of twelve New Republic ships that had dropped out of hyperspace and directly into his flight path. Three of the X-wings immediately locked onto his gunship and began pursuing him. He did not have enough expertise to outmaneuver their shots or escape, and his companions gripped their seats anxiously because they knew so.
“Hold on,” Din said firmly to his passengers, to the other ship, to anyone who was listening. He shoved the lever on the console forward and bolted into second gear to catch up to the Rebel gunships.
“He’s getting them off your tail. You got this, kid. Get us out of here,” one of the Mandalorians assured Jad.
Their confidence was comforting, and Jad flew steady until Din was able to fire convincing warning shots that scattered the X-wings. With a streak of light, he raced to the safety of hyperspace, with the rest of the squad not far behind.
“That was a close one,” Koska remarked from the passenger seat of the Crest.
Din’s helmet tilted as he pressed the controls that would chart the flight path back to their home planet. “Closer than I would have liked,” he admitted.
Trapper Wolf and his team had watched from the bridge as the two ships eluded their reinforcements. He had been unsuccessful, and regardless of the circumstances, he felt a bit like a failure. A sigh left his lungs before he turned to face the mess he had been left with.
This rivalry was definitely not over yet. And he needed all the help he could receive.
Din disliked the throne room.
While he appreciated the architecture, the ancient history of Mandalore written into the few walls that were untouched by decades of warfare, the sight of it reminded him that he indeed was the rightful heir to it all. No longer a mere bounty hunter, or the leader of an operation, but a ruler of an entire sector.
The towering, abundant window panes let in too much sunlight that casted shadows which drew one’s attention to the front of the room. Stone steps were built at the base of the elevated throne, positioning it high in everyone’s vision. Every time he sat on that throne, he was the focus of all. And although he had gradually come to accept the title of Mand’alor, he would never shake the loss of humility he felt at being addressed as such.
He didn’t consider himself to be superior to any Mandalorian, but he did understand the importance of a sovereign to forge the path of the fractured Creed. When he had first set out to reclaim Mandalore, he discovered the isolated subcultures to be so diverse that he believed it impossible to unite them, even for a common cause. Some were like his tribe, bound to the lifelong oath of never removing their helmets and determined to follow the ancient Way. Others were like Bo-Katan Kryze, prejudiced against the Children of the Watch with their roots deeply wound in the fine details of Mandalorian history.
In the beginning, their cooperation was practically nonexistent, like forcing two of the same magnets together. Sometimes it still was, and brawls between different factions had to be broken up before they developed into a culture war. But besides the tenets that each Mandalorian across worlds was sworn to—protecting foundlings, preserving beskar—Din’s position among them had emerged as a common factor to believe in.
He was an outlier, yet he embodied the fragments of every Mandalorian. He did not remove his helmet, but he wasn’t a zealot who strictly adhered to that rule, as he had violated it—for his kid, as some of them knew. He had made a living in the bounty hunting profession like many others, but he had defied the Guild on the account of his honor. Most importantly, his priority throughout their times of struggling had always been the foundlings.
Just because Din was the owner of the Darksaber and therefore the throne did not mean any Mandalorian had to back his claim. Their respect for him was hard-earned. They took their chance on following him once he and Bo-Katan had rallied enough of their kind, through the infiltrations of Imperial strongholds and the arduous battles for Mandalore, the last of which he himself suffered a mortal wound from. The Mandalorians saw valor in their Mand’alor, a quiet integrity that did not go unnoticed.
A part of Din felt privileged to be able to reconquer their home world—it wasn’t his home, not yet, and perhaps it never would be. There was a sense of dignity he felt in being able to give back to the people who had given him everything when his world was disintegrated as fast as a shot from his pulse rifle.
Still, he never desired this responsibility. He carried it well, better than most would have, but it did not change the fact that he would rather be nobody than have others bow to him.
Din didn’t know what he wanted to be; it was a major factor that aided him in his decision to rebuild the Mandalorian Creed. Aimlessly continuing on with tracking down assets for credits could not be the rest of his life. He didn’t want to be powerful, but he admittedly wanted to be influential.
There was no purpose for him after he had completed his task and taken Grogu back to his kind. For too many years, he wandered the Outer Rim and hadn’t known what to make of himself, as if the answer hadn’t been attached to his hip the entire time. Bo-Katan finally approached him three years prior with a gathered military force and reminded him of the status he held in the far reaches of his mind. Ignoring it wouldn’t make it disappear, and it was when she spoke of duty that he opened his eyes.
The Mandalorians, the most feared warriors in the galaxy, did not deserve to live subdued in their clandestine refuges. Their customs would not become extinct as their numbers dwindled with time, not on his watch. He could not idly stand by and allow the opportunity to restore his kind to their former glory pass him.
So he didn’t. He continued to defend and inspire the Mandalorians, working tirelessly every day to exact revenge on the Empire and strengthen the planet’s depleted resources. He detested politics, but he engaged in them for his people. Ruling did not have to be enjoyable; it wasn’t supposed to be. Din had never made the Mandalorians regret naming him Mand’alor. He accepted the position gracefully.
But in the depths of his heart, he wanted to be someone else. Just a father. A nobody with a little green child to spoil with his attention and cradle in his arm wherever he went. It was a dream as far-fetched as it might have been had he wished for such a thing in his dismal young adulthood.
As he stared at the throne with disinterest, Bo-Katan entered through a set of heavy doors, looking perturbed. The way she strode confidently through the palace with every turn and stretch memorized suggested that she belonged there, certainly more than he did.
Din turned his gaze from the royal seat and faced her once her footsteps grew closer.
“What exactly happened?” she asked with an edge to her voice. She had not received a full explanation from the others, and it was important that she came to him to decide their next move anyway.
With a sigh, he answered, “Everything went smoothly. We took control of the bridge, erased the data, brought two officers into custody, and I took the liberty of killing Moff Gideon.”
Bo-Katan was aware that another party was missing from his short retelling. “But?”
“The New Republic showed up. They claimed he was their prisoner and ordered me to turn him over. They threatened all of us with arrest warrants that I’m sure are being generated as we speak,” Din said.
She shook her head and paced not far from her original spot. “I’m not questioning you,” she said, “but did you have to kill him?”
“He had the location of the foundlings’ quarters as one of the next targets for his attack,” Din snapped. “Should I have risked him escaping so he could go through with it or tell someone else his plans, or should I have finished him once and for all?”
It was partly truthful. And she figured so, as she had come to know that he was not deceptive in nature. But Bo-Katan also knew him well enough at that point to be aware that he did not make rash decisions. From the sounds of it, he had not even attempted to bring the Moff in for further questioning or a formal execution, and she felt that there had been something else at play.
She did not dispute it with him. Instead, she focused on the more important repercussions. “The New Republic is still trying to get in contact with us for negotiations. This is going to worsen that already strained relationship because they are going to want us to extradite you, and possibly the others,” the Duchess stated.
Din simply held her sharp gaze. They had both taken careful steps up until then to steer clear of contact with the New Republic; the government wanted Mandalore to become a part of their coalition, and the Mandalorians wholeheartedly wanted to avoid that.
They reached out to offer aid during the uncertain period of poverty that the planet faced directly after the war they raged against the Empire, in exchange for their cooperation with the government, of course. Din had refused. Then they had contacted again, wishing to speak with the leader about welcoming them into a trade route. Din had also ignored that request. Ever since, there had been a consistent string of one-sided communication between the Galactic Senate and Mandalore. Now it seemed that the Mandalorians had accidentally made enemies of themselves on that cruiser. It was an unfavorable position to be in when they were already at a disadvantage dealing with such a massive union.
“You weren’t supposed to be exposed like this,” Bo-Katan reminded flatly.
“I know," Din replied with frustration.
“They don’t know who you are, do they?”
Rolling his eyes beneath his helmet, he said, “How could they have possibly figured that out?”
The way she pursed her lips caused lines to form at the edges of her mouth. “This is serious. The Empire already had a target painted on your back, and now the New Republic does too. We’re fortunate that, as far as we know, neither of them is aware that you are the Mand’alor,” she remarked. Moff Gideon had been, but he was no longer alive to tell the tale. “Regardless, we need to be more careful of assassination attempts going forward.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Din returned. While he was adamant on sharing some of his power with her, sometimes the way she chided him grated his nerves.
It wasn’t that he was careless with his own life; in fact, he was inherently distrustful and conducted cautious planning before attempting any operation. But when the Empire was after the secret ruler of Mandalore to destabilize the planet and the silver Mandalorian who led too many successful missions against them...well, both of his personas had their already dangerous lifestyles heightened.
Now, he was practically at the top of the Wanted Register.
“When was the last time the New Republic contacted us?” Din finally asked.
“A week ago,” Bo-Katan told him. “A senator from Corellia, of all places, reached out. He wanted the ruler of Mandalore to fly into the Core to discuss a treaty.”
Din scoffed quietly into the modulator. As if he would ever trust such an invitation. It was like approaching a sarlacc pit with no guarantee of a reward even existing.
“First it is a peace treaty. Then it is a pact that we can’t deny to rope us into their government. And before we know it, their military is occupying our planet and we are invested in their wars,” he said.
Bo-Katan shook her head in disgusted agreement. She knew better than most how the Republic in power always obtained the territories that it wanted. During the Clone Wars, the former Duchess Satine had been easily manipulated into the arms of the regime while attempting to maintain neutrality. Death Watch certainly hadn’t made the matter simple, but it was that bribing of protection that swayed Satine to the Republic’s side. She could deny their involvement all she wanted; the Mandalorian people were no fools, and when the time came to dispose of her, they did so without hesitation.
If the planet’s lengthy history had taught the Mandalorians anything, it was that they were stronger together, apart from the galaxy.
Din had agreed with Bo-Katan on this matter from the beginning and adopted a policy of isolationism. They traded with select groups and maintained mutually beneficial relationships, but never again would they dare to trust outside authorities. Not after the most recent alliance ended in the Imperial occupation.
“They’re going to use this incident against us.” Bo-Katan crossed her arms, vambraces pressed side by side. “They have leverage now to push for negotiations. We broke the unspoken truce by killing their prisoner, and soon they will reach out, and they will look like the forgiving party by promising to sweep the confrontation under the rug if we cooperate.”
The Mand’alor tiredly let his eyes drift shut. He knew that he was trapped in a hopeless situation. While he did not want another adversary, he could not extend an agreement. In the political realm, it would look like he was denying their olive branch in favor of conflict.
“Let’s deal with our own internal affairs for now. We will decide how to proceed once we hear their message,” he said. After all, there was never a shortage of needs on Mandalore, since it had been left destitute in the wake of war. Two years later, they were still short on select supplies, which the New Republic correctly figured.
Bo-Katan’s facade of tension collapsed when she heard the same discouragement she felt in his voice. It was rare for her to soften even for a moment, and Din was wary of it.
“You don’t need to hear it from me, but you’re doing well,” she reassured him. Her eyes burned with the intensity of her commendation.
But he didn’t believe in himself as the rest of Mandalore did. He saw what they were lacking and strived to give it to them, desperate to meet their requirements. It wasn’t always plausible though.
She glanced over at the throne and spoke of family, something she did infrequently. “My sister, Satine, tried to remain neutral during her rule. I’ve told you this before,” Bo-Katan remarked.
Din listened respectfully, fully understanding the ache of having nothing left of family to cling to except recollections that became hazier each passing year.
She steeled herself and continued, “But it wasn’t her pacifism or her reluctance to choose allies that made her weak. It was her inability to protect her people, and her denial of the Mandalorians’ warrior past.”
His visor unconsciously turned to watch the throne.
“You are a strong leader, and not because you make smart decisions with the power you begrudgingly hold. But because all Mandalorians hold you in the highest regard. They have followed you into battle and continue to because you are a true Mandalorian. You represent the best of us, and as long as you continue to rule as you do, it will be impossible to lose their respect.”
The praise was undeserved in Din’s eyes. “I accidentally won a sword. Nothing more,” he contradicted her. “If it had been you, they would have followed you all the same.”
“They still follow me,” she reminded him with a tilt to her lips, trying not to consider the fact that her past mistakes made her unfit to rule in the eyes of most Mandalorians. “Because you appointed me as the Duchess. To this day you deny that you deserve to be the Mand’alor, but only someone worthy of such a position would distribute the power.”
In all honesty, he had taken on advisors and appointed other leaders because he was hopeless when it came to regulating a planet. He didn’t pretend to be knowledgeable about anything aside from military matters and combat. To Bo-Katan, it was a sign of strength that he handed off his authority; to the Mandalorians, it showed that he was humble, very much one of them. But Din simply did not have interest in ruling, much less alone.
So while he ran a tight and effective enterprise, he opted for going out into the field often. As a former bounty hunter, his place was out in the treacherous unknown of the Outer Rim, not confined to one planet. It had served well as a cover, because who would have expected an ex-Guild member that was personally orchestrating guerrilla warfare against the Empire to be simultaneously ruling Mandalore?
Meanwhile, Bo-Katan dealt with foreign affairs while he was away. He had a talent for convincing opposed people to cooperate with each other, but she served well as the face of Mandalore. For now, he couldn’t accept the rest of the credit among outsiders or the Empire wouldn’t resign until his helmet was mounted on their wall. Within Mandalorian society, however, they knew of his accomplishments, though it didn’t matter to him whether anyone was aware or not.
Besides, with the New Republic now backing the Mandalorians into a corner, Din was content with leaving the public speaking to Bo-Katan.
“Well,” he eventually said. “As Duchess, I trust that you will help me sort out this...issue with the New Republic?”
“We’ll figure it out as the events unfold,” she promised. She wasn’t avid to tackle the problem whenever their confrontation came, but she had always had a knack for holding her ground in unexpected situations.
Footsteps drew the attention of both Mandalorian leaders. A young man donned in green-painted armor had entered the throne room, his helmet in his hands, and he froze in place at the sight of them.
“Mand’alor. Duchess,” he addressed them with a choppy salute. “Forgive me for intruding. The guards just let me in, and I wasn’t aware—“
“Jad,” Din interrupted to ease his stress. “You’re fine.”
Bo-Katan figured that Jad was here to see him, as she vaguely recognized the blonde kid as one of the recruits that had accompanied the others on recent missions. So she excused herself with, “I was just leaving.” She brushed past Din with a nod and headed for the set of doors she had entered through.
“I just wanted to properly thank you,” Jad said, glancing past his ruler to watch the pair of doors shut. “For saving us from that fleet. I couldn’t have handled it on my own.”
He stared down at his feet with embarrassment. Here he was admitting to the Mandalorian of all Mandalorians that he did not have what it takes to survive out in the battlefield.
Din had the urge to grin. Instead of doing so, he encouraged him. He recognized shadows of his younger, reckless self in Jad, though he had been much more self-deprecating and stern, drowning in repressed grief and hoping brutality would make him feel anything else.
“That’s why you come on those missions. To learn. Experience is the most important tool for every warrior,” he remarked.
Jad nodded, lifting his head to look at the visor of the leader whose face none of them had seen—except Bo-Katan on one occasion, though she would not flaunt such a thing. His parents did not follow the Way that the Mand’alor followed, so he was not raised in it and therefore removed his helmet in casual settings. But somehow it felt disrespectful to stand in front of his ruler like this, his face bare, almost like he was mocking the separate culture within his own culture.
“You’re skilled for your age,” Din commented.
Jad shook his head bashfully. “I’ve just been training since the day I could walk,” he explained. While he did train overtime to perfect his technique, there was nothing that set him apart from the average Mandalorian.
“I’ve noticed. That’s why I trust you enough to take you along.”
Straightening at the compliment coming from such a high source, Jad said, “Well, I appreciate that you take those of us with inexperience out there. We all enjoy it, and we are grateful for the opportunity.”
Din’s helmet dipped in response.
The young Mandalorian did not want to mention anything, but the events of the latest mission preyed on his mind. None of the others seemed threatened by the New Republic’s vow to apprehend them all. He may have had that stubborn Mandalorian spirit, yet he was youthful, and he could not shake his worry that he really did have that government after him.
“Can...can I ask you something?” he said.
Din tapped his vambrace to ignore an incoming call. “Go ahead.”
Jad chewed the inside of his cheek to stall for a second. He didn’t want it to seem like he was questioning his authority or his choice of action; he was just genuinely curious as to what had transpired back on the Imperial cruiser. After a moment of debate, he decided to come out with it. The Mand’alor had always been kind to him despite his outward appearance. Surely, he would not punish him for something so inconsequential as an inquiry.
He took a deep breath before asking, “Why did you kill Moff Gideon?”
The beskar pauldrons on Din’s shoulders shifted when he tensed up. The Mandalorian wasn’t reluctant to answer, but he didn’t want anyone to believe he had acted out of his own self-interest and nothing more. Truthfully, he had killed the Moff for selfish purposes, though it was safer all around for Mandalore that Gideon was silenced.
“He was too dangerous to be left alive,” he said cryptically. “He knew too much.”
“Well, yes, but...” Jad furrowed his eyebrows, recalling how the Moff had spoken. There was something more beneath the surface in those bits of conversation he picked up. “Did you know him?”
Din sighed lowly beneath his helmet. Turning to face the contours of buildings outside the windows, pressed against the darkening sky, he replied, “Yes. A long time ago. He once possessed the Darksaber.”
Oh, so Gideon was the Moff that the Mand'alor had defeated. It made sense, from what little of the backstory Jad knew. The young Mandalorian did not want to push his luck, but he couldn’t quell his impulsive desire for answers. Rocking on his feet, he continued, “I heard him mention a child. What did that have to do with our mission?”
It introduced a smattering of memories to Din’s mind, the terror in Grogu’s eyes as the Dark Troopers shot back to their ship with him in their unforgiving grasp, the unrelenting feelings of dread and failure turning over in his stomach for days afterward. The desperation that surged even to the tips of his fingers as they twitched toward the kid during his bargain with Moff Gideon.
“It didn’t,” Din said.
The echoing quiet of the vast throne room gave him the antithetical sensation that he was trapped. No matter how many Mandalorians surrounded him on a daily basis, he was confined to his solitary existence. A part of him was out there somewhere beyond the glass pane, on a planet that was not visible as a speck even with the aid of the enhancer built into his helmet. A planet that he probably had never heard of and would never find.
Moff Gideon had the coordinates of this planet. Din had tossed them into oblivion with no regard for the loss that would haunt him afterward. He had only been considering the kid’s security.
Eventually, he unrolled his hands from their fists and spoke without a hitch in his tone. “He knew the location of my foundling.”
Jad’s eyebrows shot up to his forehead in astonishment. “You have a foundling?” he nearly gasped.
It surprised Din that he wasn’t aware. While it was a topic that he kept closely guarded beneath his chest plate, the rumors about him were always rampant. He assumed most Mandalorians knew of that piece of his life, that snippet in time that burned like a waning star.
And perhaps Jad had been privy to this knowledge and carelessly discarded it as just another tale, like the one about how he had removed his helmet for a kid. The Mand’alor was never seen with a child, and besides, Jad couldn’t picture him caring for a foundling. In the short time he had gotten to know him, he would describe the ruler as battle-hardened and solemn, with a bit of a temper on occasion. The idea of such a warrior patiently looking after a child seemed laughable.
Din smiled sadly in the privacy of his helmet. It felt more like a grimace. “Yes,” he said. “It’s been...ten years since I last saw him.”
Even though he masked it well, Jad identified the grief with ease, having always lived among a people whose families were hunted down and slaughtered for resisting a foreign power. Suddenly feeling guilty for raising the subject, he amended, “I’m sorry.”
But he still didn’t understand the circumstances. If the child was a Mandalorian foundling, why were they separated? And why was Moff Gideon after him? Was it simply to strike at the Mand’alor, or something else?
Almost as if Din knew that questions were raging in his mind, he turned away from the view of Sundari to face him. “It’s fine. He is with his kind,” he said. “Safe, now that Moff Gideon is gone.”
As Din spoke of his kid, Jad found that it was beginning to make sense. The Mand’alor had always emphasized that foundlings were the priority. And he never cared to figure it out, but maybe the Mand’alor had a personal interest in them because he had once been a foundling himself; he had not heard of anyone else belonging to Clan Djarin since settling on Mandalore.
But none of it was his business, and he had no desire to pry. If anything, he felt sorry for him, because he clearly missed his child. Perhaps he was grown now; perhaps the Mand’alor was absent for many milestones the longer they were apart. At his age with an intact family, Jad could not begin to understand. He could only extend sympathy rather than empathy, though that would be a mistake, so he kept his spontaneous mouth shut.
With a heightened respect, Jad nodded at his ruler. “I’m glad to have helped, then,” he stated.
Din snapped out of his somber mood. He reached out and patted his pauldron encouragingly. “Thank you,” he said. “Get some rest. We’ll set out for our next mission in a couple of days.”
The boy donned his helmet before saluting him. “Thank you again, Mand’alor.” His voice sounded uncharacteristically cold through the modulator.
Once Jad had cleared the room, Din turned his back on the throne. A prolonged sigh escaped his lungs and filtered through his helmet as he tipped his head back. The darkness provided by his eyelids was a source of calm for a moment, obstructing the last of the dying sunlight from entering.
Despite the appreciated company of Jad that had left moments ago, he now wanted to be alone. Go back to his ship, forget about the elevated price he was worth, that the New Republic was going to use to draw him out. He opened his eyes after an unknown amount of time and started forward.
But then there was an unexpected pressure around his index finger. It halted him in his tracks, and his attention immediately deviated to coax the sensation along.
Din stared down at his outstretched finger as the ghost of a tri-fingered grip curled around it. His gloved hand twitched in an unspecified direction for the invisible touch, silently searching.
“Hey, buddy,” he murmured.
His own words to Jad served as a harsh reminder. An entire decade. Din had not anticipated that he would—could—go that long without Grogu there to toddle in his footsteps. But it had been many years, and he was beginning to lose hope that their day would arrive, especially since he had let his only chance at finding him pass.
The grasp on his finger tightened in tandem with his thoughts. He savored it; the kid had not reached out to him like this in several months, and before that, there were intermittent periods where the dreams and the warmth he provided were absent. It was agonizing to think it, but he started to wonder if Grogu was gradually forgetting him.
He had been a mere flash in the child’s lengthy life, after all. At sixty years old, Grogu must have carried a plethora of memories, and he was still just a kid who could easily be distracted. Din couldn’t possibly blame him for neglecting those recollections when he had so much to carry, but the idea that the kid may not have remembered him at all one day—their adventures, his true face, his unspoken yet demonstrated love—made his gut clench with sickening apprehension.
But he was here now, and that meant something. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” he muttered aloud.
Patiently, he stood with locked joints and refused to move until the bond was severed. Grogu clung for a longer duration than usual. I know, Din thought with a clenched jaw and a tight throat. I know.
He often wondered where the kid was, how he was faring. With this connection as evidence, he knew Grogu was excelling in Jedi training, though he didn’t need anything but faith to prove that point. The kid could be failing for all he cared, distracted by any glimmering object or snack in his path, so long as he was happy doing it.
Sometimes Din had masochistic worries that he only quelled with his head down in work; he wondered if Grogu was allowed to get up to his typical mischief, wherever he was. He hoped that the Jedi had enough of his favorite foods to satisfy him—live frogs and amphibian eggs and cookies. He needed to believe that someone was there to hold him when he had his nightmares, that he was chasing the native creatures and pressing all the wrong buttons on someone’s dashboard. That he was being treated like the child he was, given all that Din could not offer.
He had to trust in it, take comfort in it. Or else he would drive himself mad.
The sensation tapered off like a slowing pulse, a yearning ache that would linger with him for days afterward. It stirred a long-forgotten tenderness that he would mask with indifference, as if it was a practiced art. Sure enough, once he had gathered his bearings, he focused his helmet straight and began striding purposefully out of the throne room, as if nothing had occurred.
But it wasn’t easy to move forward. It never would be.