Her mind had brushed a familiar presence in the Force — one she knew intimately. A presence that had once been bright but had turned black as space, becoming a soundless scream of rage and need. She knew instantly that it was Ben Solo, her son. Leia tried to stop herself from being drawn into her memories, even as she knew she wouldn't be able to resist. Ben in her womb, turning and tumbling in search of comfort, an ever-expanding radiance in the Force, but one shot through with veins of shadow. Luke had reassured her that was normal — the brighter the light, the darker the shadow. She'd desperately hoped that was true. Ben as a baby, red-faced and round. His hair had been black from birth, impossibly fine and delicate — the softest thing Leia had ever imagined. Ben as a toddler, forever following Han. Carrying the dice from the Millennium Falcon — the ones his father had used to win the beloved, battered freighter — and promising anyone who'd listen that one day he would be a pilot, too, like his daddy. Ben in adolescence, his face grown lean above a strong jaw. A boy who always seemed alone, a churning storm in the Force. And whose anger had begun to manifest in malfunctions and breakdowns and objects that fell off shelves and shattered with no one near. Ben, her son. Who'd been stolen from her and Han, stolen by Snoke's wiles and Luke's mistakes and his own furies. Who'd become Kylo Ren, the champion of the First Order — and his father's murderer. Ben was leading that TIE squadron. He had fired the torpedo that had killed her pilots, and now he was coming to kill her and everyone else.
— Star Wars: The Last Jedi Novelization (Chapter 8)
