A Requiem of Ash and Stars

CHAPTER 15: CURRENTS OF CHANGE

Arya Stark stood on the deck of the ship, bracing herself against the strong gusts of wind that rolled off the Gulf of Grief. The day was bright, the sky a fierce, cloudless blue, but a brisk breeze made the air feel sharp. At her back, the warm salt-laced breeze carried the smell of the sea. It was a smell she was beginning to know well, after weeks of traveling by water with Sansa, Syrio Forel, and the Faceless Man who'd become their constant guard. She had never liked sea voyages before, but now she found them strangely comforting—she was free from King's Landing, from Lannister captivity, from all the horrors of that place.

Sansa clung to the ship's rail a short distance away, face turned slightly green, her braided auburn hair blowing in tangles around her cheeks. She hadn't adapted to sea life as easily as Arya had. Every so often, Sansa threw Arya a glance that hovered between annoyance and longing. The older Stark girl was not sure how to handle everything that had happened. Their forced departure from King's Landing, the terror of leaving behind their father in captivity, the uncertain future in a foreign land across the sea—it weighed on them all, but Sansa wore her anxieties openly, while Arya tried to bury them under a fierce desire to keep going.

Standing next to Arya, gazing at the approaching shoreline, was Syrio Forel—once the First Sword of Braavos. He had insisted on accompanying them, refusing to leave Arya's side after the tumult they'd escaped. The elegant swordsman wore a simple brown tunic and breeches, but even so, he carried himself with the regal grace of a master fighter. Whenever he moved, it was fluid, as though he danced with the wind. Now he studied the coastline of Slaver's Bay with narrowed eyes.

"It is not Braavos," he said softly, "but the water is water, and the sky is sky. If one can float in one city, one can float in them all." He offered Arya a small, encouraging smile.

Arya snorted a laugh. "I don't see how that helps, Syrio. Everything here looks different."

Syrio shrugged, turning slightly so his face caught the sun. "Everything is always different. That is the essence of life, is it not? Adapt, become water dancing around the stones that block your way. We are only a day from Meereen now. We shall see if it is welcoming or not."

Behind them, standing near the prow, the Faceless Man loomed with quiet detachment. The same borrowed face he had worn since rescuing Sansa from King's Landing: a tall, lean figure with dark hair and an indifferent expression. Arya had grown used to his presence, even if she still found him unsettling. He rarely spoke unless necessary, but whenever trouble arose, he was the first to act with lethal efficiency.

Sansa glanced over, wiping her mouth with a handkerchief. "Are you certain Jon is here?" she asked, her voice wavering. Sansa had come to grips with the revelation that Jon was no mere "bastard brother." Some strange rumor had reached them in the last few days of their flight: the talk of a conqueror in Essos who might be Stark-blooded, or Targaryen, or both. The rumor was dizzying in detail—someone called "Jaehaerys Targaryen," who had overthrown slavers, united free cities, and was rumored to be… Jon. But how could that be? They had never heard anything like it until the Faceless Man let slip that the man they knew as Jon Snow was rumored to have a far larger destiny.

"He is here," the Faceless Man said flatly, stepping forward with a silent tread. "Or rather, he is in these lands, forging alliances, finishing conquests. We have orders from the Red Faith to guide you to Meereen, where his people wait. The King's instructions were explicit: watch over you, protect you, ensure you reach him safely."

Syrio folded his arms. "That does not mean we trust them wholly, no? The Red Faith is known for zeal, for burning sacrifices in the name of their lord. I have seen men in Braavos recoil from such priests. We shall remain cautious."

Arya's heart pounded with excitement, laced with nervous fear. Jon was more than a brother—he might be the rightful ruler. She wasn't certain how she felt about that. On the one hand, she missed Jon fiercely, wanted to see him again more than anything. On the other, she worried a new name or a new title might change him, might make him distant. She pictured him as he was at Winterfell, a quiet boy with a half-smile, teaching her to hold a sword properly. She wasn't sure how or why he could claim to be Targaryen, or if he truly was. If he was the rightful King, would he still have time for Arya?

The coastline drew nearer with each passing minute, revealing a sprawling city with high walls, ringed by farmland and smaller outbuildings. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the water, painting Meereen in hazy gold. Tall pyramid-like structures jutted from the city's heart, overshadowing the docks. Arya couldn't help a slight gasp. She had never seen architecture quite like that—Astapor and Yunkai, she'd heard, were similar, but this might be grander still. Their ship cut through the harbor, weaving among other vessels from across the seas. She spotted flags she didn't recognize, a myriad of colors. A new world entirely.

They disembarked onto a wooden quay, the boards creaking underfoot. The heat struck them like a wave—far hotter than King's Landing's climate, leaving Arya's clothes clinging to her back with sweat. She wrinkled her nose, adjusting her gear. Sansa grimaced, already flushed from the sun and the discomfort.

"Welcome to Meereen, city of the Freed," came a voice. A group of robed figures in red approached, each wearing golden sunburst emblems. At their head walked a tall woman, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, her eyes reflecting a mixture of reverence and caution. "We are the Red Faith, assigned by our King to greet the Stark sisters, Syrio Forel, and the silent guardian among them. We come in peace."

Arya bristled at the mention of "the silent guardian"—the Faceless Man. She glanced at him, but he gave no reaction, only a small dip of the head as acknowledgment. Sansa stepped closer to Arya, uncertain. Syrio regarded the red-cloaked figures with a calculating stare.

"Your King? You mean Jon Snow?" Arya blurted, feeling her heart thump.

The woman offered a gentle smile. "Our King is indeed the one some call Jon Snow, though we know him by another name and title. But he does not enforce that name upon others. He has simply declared himself King of these Freed Cities, champion of the people, liberator from the old ways. He has left orders to treat you as honored guests, to see you safely to the temple district until he arrives in Meereen."

Syrio glanced at the Faceless Man, exchanging a quick, silent look. Then Syrio said, "And you vow no harm to them? No attempt to ensnare them in Red Faith rituals?"

The woman spread her hands. "The Red Faith of this land is loyal to the King's commands. No harm shall befall you. We serve as protectors, guides." She paused, flicking her eyes to Sansa's pale face, to Arya's worn clothes. "You must be weary from your travels. Please, come with us."

Arya weighed her options, but the Faceless Man nodded, so she exhaled. "All right. Let's go, then." She cast a worried glance at Sansa, who bit her lip, then stepped forward. If the Red Faith had truly been changed by Jon's leadership, maybe they were safe. She tried to bury the memory of hearing stories about red priests burning men alive. She'd trust that Jon wouldn't allow such cruelty if he was truly in charge.

They followed the red-cloaked envoys through bustling docks. The city beyond shimmered in the sunlight—broad streets lined with open-air stalls, half-lowered awnings shading produce or trinkets. Freedmen in meager clothing hurried about their business, pausing occasionally to greet the robed priests or stare curiously at the newcomers. Arya noticed a surprising sense of calm among the people. Despite the throngs, no tension akin to King's Landing's fear hung in the air. Instead, a mild sense of hope or contentment. She recalled rumors that Jon had broken the chains of slavery here, forging a new system of governance. It seemed to have a tangible effect on the populace.

Sansa walked close to Arya, wringing her hands. "Do you think Jon— I mean, if he's king… why would he not have told us sooner? Or come for Father?"

Arya's heart twinged. "I don't know. We only heard rumors that he's… different now. Maybe he tried, but the war complicated things." She remembered the message that had come about Ned's captivity. Perhaps Jon couldn't intervene directly. But she had no clear answers. She saw the doubt in Sansa's eyes, the guilt too. Sansa had always been distant with Jon, treating him more as a servant or bastard than a brother. Now she might fear he would scorn her.

They moved deeper into Meereen's main avenue, passing stone obelisks carved with old Ghiscari script. Everywhere, the symbol of the Red Faith—the flame—was painted on walls or posted on signboards, though Arya also saw the stylized direwolf-and-dragon design that she recognized from rumors of Jon's banner. She paused, eyebrows lifting. The combined wolf and dragon emblem was repeated so frequently it must hold deep significance for the city's new regime. Did that mean Jon truly had claimed Targaryen blood? The thought made her uneasy, but also proud if it meant Jon was strong enough to rule.

The robed woman guided them toward a district near the city's heart, climbing broad steps that led to a large temple complex ringed by pillars. Purple banners fluttered overhead, bearing the wolf-and-dragon symbol. Priests milled about in red robes, some chanting, some conversing with passersby. The woman leading them gestured to a wide, arched doorway. "Inside this temple you may rest. King… or Lord… Jon will come soon. He is finishing a campaign nearby."

Arya's curiosity burned. "He's fighting more battles? Where?"

The priestess lowered her eyes. "Reports say near the outskirts, a large Khalasar approached, refusing the new order. The King's forces marched to meet them. We expect victory soon. This land has known many battles of late, but each city or tribe that surrenders embraces the King's reforms. Those that refuse are subdued."

Syrio frowned slightly, as though uncertain about the ethical aspect of conquering. But he shrugged. "War rarely spares any. Let us hope your King spares the innocent."

The priestess nodded. "He does, fervently. That is why so many here welcome him. Now, please, step inside. We have quarters prepared."

They entered a spacious interior courtyard with a mosaic floor depicting flames and a stylized sun. Arched colonnades lined the perimeter. The air felt cooler than the streets, aided by tall, open windows. Attendants in red bustled about, offering cups of chilled water, trays of fruit. Arya's stomach rumbled—she realized she was ravenous after the voyage. Sansa accepted water with a grateful sigh, though she looked deeply uneasy.

Soon, attendants led them to separate rooms along a corridor, each chamber simple but comfortable—a bed, a small table, a wardrobe. The walls were painted in warm ochers and reds. Arya stepped into hers, exhaling with relief. The journey had left her exhausted, mentally and physically. She set her small pack down, noticing a fresh linen shift folded on the bed. A sign of hospitality.

Syrio hovered at the door. "I'll see the rest of the temple, gauge if we're truly safe. The Faceless Man will remain near. Rest if you can, Arya. The path has been long." His dark eyes held concern, fatherly in a sense she'd grown to value. She nodded, and he left quietly.

Left alone, Arya sank onto the bed, letting out a breath. Her mind whirled with thoughts of Jon, the grand transformations in Essos, her father's captivity, the possibility that Jon was not just a brother but a cousin with Targaryen blood. It was too much to process. She wanted to see him, ask him everything: why he left, how he conquered cities, if he still cared for her as the tomboy sister. She rubbed her eyes, tears welling unexpectedly. Sansa was in the next room, likely just as anxious. Everything in their world had turned upside down. But for once, Arya felt a spark of hope. If Jon could conquer half a continent, maybe he could free Ned too.

She lay back on the bed, letting exhaustion claim her. Tomorrow, perhaps the King would arrive in Meereen, and her questions would find answers.

Meanwhile, across a scorching plain near Meereen, Jon stood with Dany at a vantage point, gazing out at rolling dunes where dust clouds rose from galloping hooves. A roiling Dothraki khalasar threatened the new order. Viserys commanded a large portion of their combined forces—Unsullied, freedmen auxiliaries, even some local militias—and prepared to clash with the Dothraki horde. The midday sun blazed overhead, and heat shimmered in waves on the horizon. Jon had grown accustomed to these conditions, wearing light leathers beneath an airy cloak. Dany stood beside him, similarly dressed, her silver-gold hair tied back. Both exuded calm, for they drew on the Force's resonance to center themselves.

"They're charging," Jon observed quietly, lifting a slender spyglass to see the Dothraki outriders leading a wedge formation. "Viserys has the main line set. The Unsullied hold the center, the Wolf Pack cavalry on the flanks. He'll likely attempt to lure them into a kill zone."

Dany nodded, lips pressed. "He's been eager to prove himself again. The last battles have gone well, but I worry about overconfidence. The Dothraki fight with savage skill."

Jon breathed out. "I'll keep watch. We'll use the Battle Meditation to unify our men. Keep the Dothraki from breaking through." He shot Dany a small smile. "Ready?"

She returned it, albeit nervously. "Yes." Over the last months, she had trained in channeling the Force, learning from Jon's guidance. She was not as advanced as him but could lend her empathy to the meditative link that boosted morale, kept discipline. So they closed their eyes, breathing in tandem, letting the swirl of the Force envelop them. A subtle ripple expanded from them across the battlefield, linking each soldier's heart, instilling focus and resolve. Jon felt the tapestry of minds: thousands of men, each with fear or adrenaline. He soothed their anxieties, sharpened their sense of purpose.

Down below, Viserys led from the front. He wore a sleek breastplate etched with the direwolf-and-dragon crest, carrying a curved sword. As the Dothraki riders thundered closer, he let out a battle cry. The Unsullied braced spears. The Wolf Pack cavalry fanned out. Dust roiled, hooves drummed. The collision came in a roar, men and horses tumbling in the chaos. But the disciplined lines held. The Dothraki tried to swarm, archers loosing arrows, but the synergy from the Force-infused battle turned each potential breach into a solid defense. The Wolf Pack cavalry harried the Dothraki flanks, cutting off escape routes.

Viserys exhaled, feeling the Force flow through him. He had discovered a latent ability, initially overshadowed by bitterness and rage. Over time, under Jon's watch, Viserys had learned to harness it. Now, in the heart of battle, he used bursts of Force Speed, darting between clashing warriors, slicing down Dothraki raiders before they could regroup. He flung small arcs of Force Lightning at riders who threatened to break the Unsullied formation, though he tried to keep it minimal. The swirling dust and screams of men and horses enveloped him, but he pressed on, fearless in the surge of empowerment.

Within half an hour, the Dothraki wedge lost momentum, hammered from multiple sides. Men began to peel away, uncertain. In the final throes, a roar rose from the Dothraki lines. Drogo, their mighty Khal, advanced on a warhorse with a retinue of loyal bloodriders. He singled out Viserys with a piercing gaze, guided his horse forward in challenge. Viserys felt his heart pound—Khal Drogo was a legend among the horselords, rumored unstoppable in single combat. Yet Viserys had grown stronger, bolder. He nodded, signaling the nearby Unsullied to hold back. "This is my fight," he rasped.

Drogo dismounted with a fluid motion, brandishing an arakh that gleamed under the scorching sun. Around them, the battlefield parted, giving space for their duel. Viserys approached, sword in hand, sweat beading on his brow, tension coiled in every muscle. "Khal Drogo," he said, voice surprisingly steady. "You are a worthy foe."

Drogo gave a nod, respect glinting in his dark eyes. "You lead these foreigners with skill. You… fight like a demon. This is a good day to face you."

Viserys allowed a slight smirk. "Then let us finish it." With that, they lunged. Drogo swung his arakh in a wide arc, quick as a striking serpent. Viserys parried, the Force lending him reflexes beyond normal men. Sparks flew. They circled, exchanging blows that kicked up dust. The watchers held their breath. Drogo roared, pressing a fierce offensive, each slash fueled by raw power. Viserys responded with controlled footwork, weaving in the Force to anticipate angles, moving just enough to avoid lethal strikes. He admired Drogo's formidable skill—there was no doubting the Khal was a master of the arakh.

The duel spanned minutes that felt like hours. Drogo found small openings, slicing into Viserys's side lightly, drawing blood. Viserys gritted his teeth against the pain. He remembered Jon's advice: do not rely solely on Force Lightning or raw aggression. Control emotions, shape them. He parried another slash, pivoted behind Drogo, landing a glancing blow across the Khal's back. Drogo grunted, acknowledging the hit. The tension heightened. Each man realized the other was formidable.

Eventually, with dust swirling and both men bleeding, Viserys locked blades with Drogo in a test of strength. Drogo bared his teeth. "You're strong, Targaryen. My men whispered how you flung lightning. Will you show me that now?"

Viserys let out a breathless chuckle. "If I must. But first, I want to see your best." He twisted, loosening the lock, forcing Drogo to stumble. With a swift move, Viserys kicked the Khal's leg out from under him. Drogo fell to a knee, trying to swing his arakh, but Viserys battered it aside with a downward strike, sending it clattering. Before Drogo could recover, Viserys's sword tip hovered at the Khal's throat. A hush fell.

Drogo stared up, breathing ragged. "Finish it," he growled, dignity unwavering.

Viserys paused. For an instant, he considered sparing him. But the Khal had refused to yield, leading a charge that threatened the new order. Mercy might be weakness. He grit his teeth, remembering how these Dothraki had inflicted suffering on local villages that refused them. "You fought well, Khal Drogo," he said quietly. Then, with a quick thrust, he ended Drogo's life.

A stunned silence clung to the field. Drogo's bloodriders let out cries of rage. They lunged at Viserys from multiple angles. Tired as he was, he saw them moving, recognized the lethal threat. In that moment, he let his anger surge. He extended a hand, unleashing chain Force Lightning. Blue-white arcs leapt from his fingertips, crackling across the cluster of attackers. They convulsed, dropping in a heap of smoke and charred flesh. When the sparks died, a hush reigned. The remaining Dothraki stared, terrified. Their Khal and his bloodriders were gone. The field belonged to Viserys.

He stood panting, sword dripping blood, a swirl of dust around him. The onlooking Unsullied and Wolf Pack soldiers erupted in cheers. The Dothraki knelt or threw down weapons, acknowledging him as victor. By Dothraki tradition, one who slew the Khal might claim the khalasar. Viserys turned, adrenaline still coursing. He had claimed a vast new horde of riders in a single duel. Jon and Dany, from a distant vantage, watched in calm acceptance, continuing the Battle Meditation until the last pockets of resistance vanished.

Later, as the battlefield settled, Jon quietly parted from Dany's side, letting her and Viserys handle the aftermath of the conquest—folding the new Khalasar into their growing empire, organizing distribution of supplies, ensuring no wanton slaughter occurred. It was a pattern repeated after each major battle. Jon found it best to let Viserys or Dany handle local transitions while he pressed on to other matters. He trusted them enough, and the people saw multiple Targaryens as a unified front. That was often enough to quell rebellion or harness loyalty.

Jon stepped away, wiping sweat from his brow, exchanging a nod with Thorn, who had lingered near him. "Time we head to Meereen," he said. "Arya and Sansa arrived. I should greet them."

Thorn nodded. "Yes, my lord." She gestured to a waiting retinue of cavalry. Within minutes, Jon rode off, dust swirling around hoofbeats, leaving the field behind. The wind on his face felt like relief, though a deeper sadness tugged at him. War after war, city after city, each conquest necessary but draining. Now, at least, he could see Arya and Sansa, two pieces of home he had missed fiercely. He prayed they would accept him still, after all the secrets and rumors of Targaryen blood. Part of him braced for awkwardness.

Riding with Thorn and a handful of Unsullied outriders, Jon made good time across the desert roads leading to Meereen. By dusk, the city's gates rose before them, newly adorned with his banner. He felt a twist of anticipation. The Red Faith priests who welcomed him at the gate bowed low, reporting that the Stark girls were safe in the temple. Jon pressed forward, mind spinning with emotion. So many years since he saw Arya. Sansa too, though they'd never been close. Now they were here, in his domain. He dismounted in the temple courtyard, giving his horse's reins to a stablehand. Guards parted, letting him stride up the stone steps.

Inside, the corridors glowed with lamplight, the mosaic floors reflecting a subdued hush. Priests lowered their heads in respect. Jon could sense Thorn trailing him, silent as ever. At last, they reached a wide chamber used for receiving guests. The door stood ajar, and beyond it, Arya's voice carried, excited and urgent. Jon's heart raced.

He stepped through. A hush fell. Arya froze mid-sentence, turning. She looked older—taller, thinner, her hair cropped shorter, her eyes bright with a thousand unspoken questions. Time seemed to collapse. Jon felt tears threaten as he recalled the little girl who once idolized him at Winterfell. Arya stood from a bench, chest heaving. They stared at each other for a moment, disbelieving. Then she dashed across the floor, throwing herself into Jon's arms with a soft cry. He caught her, pulling her close, the swirl of her scent mixing with the memory of home. He didn't care about Targaryen secrets or conquered cities in that moment. Only Arya, alive and safe.

They held on for a long beat, trembling. Arya sobbed quietly, pressing her face into his chest. "Jon," she whispered, voice cracking. "I missed you so much. I—I was so scared. And then the Faceless Man said you're not my brother but my cousin, a Targaryen. I don't understand it all, but I was terrified you wouldn't want me anymore."

Jon closed his eyes, swallowing hard. "Never. You're my family, Arya. It doesn't matter what name the realm gives me. You'll always be my sister… or cousin, or however they label it. I love you. That hasn't changed."

She nodded, sniffling. "I was so worried." Then she leaned back, eyes shining. "But I see you're—so big now, so… different. Everyone here calls you a king. You really conquered all these places?"

Jon smiled through tears. "I had help. It's a long story, but yes, we've freed many cities from tyranny or slavery. We're forging something new. I want the realm safe from the real threats—White Walkers and the chaos in Westeros." He glanced around, spotting Sansa standing at a distance, hands folded, face pale. She wore a plain gown, her hair pinned neatly. She hovered in the shadows, uncertain. Jon gave Arya's arm a gentle squeeze, then stepped forward, addressing Sansa quietly. "Sansa. I'm glad you're safe."

Sansa offered a stiff curtsy. "My—my lord. Or… your Grace? I'm not sure what to call you."

He grimaced, waving that off. "Jon is fine. Or if you insist, call me brother, as I once was to you. We need no formalities."

She bowed her head, cheeks coloring. "I… I'm sorry for how I treated you in Winterfell. I never imagined… I didn't realize… that you'd become this. I was foolish, unkind. Please—"

He lifted a hand to still her words. "Enough. It's the past. We all grew up with illusions. This war changed everything. I hold no grudge, Sansa. I want us to be a family if we can." He studied her uncertain smile. She seemed relieved yet awkward. He gave a small nod. "We have much to discuss, about Father, about the North, about your captivity in King's Landing."

She swallowed. "Yes. We do. Father's still a prisoner. The Lannisters—"

Jon's face tightened with anger. "I've heard. I'm building enough strength to challenge them eventually. That's part of why I remain in Essos. But come, we'll talk properly soon. For now, I'm just glad you made it here in one piece."

She nodded, eyes wavering between tears and a hopeful glimmer. Then a new presence approached from the side: Syrio Forel, arms crossed, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. "You must be the famed King," he said in that lilting Braavosi accent. "Jon Snow, once a brother in Winterfell, now a conqueror. I am Syrio Forel, First Sword of Braavos, though I have served Arya in these dark times. An honor to meet you."

Jon clasped his hand, a genuine smile brightening his face. "The honor is mine, Syrio. Arya spoke of your lessons, how you saved her from Lannister swords. I owe you a debt. I hope one day to repay it."

Syrio gave a gracious bow. "I do not do it for debt or gold. The girl is worthy. She has the heart of a water dancer, even if her steps are clumsy yet. I'm pleased to see she's reunited with kin who care."

Jon's chest warmed with gratitude. "Then your place is secure if you wish to remain at her side. I can always use men of skill and honor in my realm."

The Faceless Man stepped forward, silent as a cat. Jon inclined his head. "And you… I've heard from your fellows about how you protected my family in King's Landing. My thanks." The Faceless Man only bowed in acknowledgment. Arya shot him a grin, obviously grateful to him as well. Sansa still looked uneasy around the assassin, but she said nothing.

Jon invited them all to walk with him through Meereen. "We have much to see. I want you to understand how I'm ruling Essos. Then we can speak about the future." Leading them from the temple's courtyard into broad streets, Jon explained how over the past months he'd broken the slaver aristocracies, installed councils of freedpeople, and opened trade routes. Citizens greeted him with warmth, calling "My King!" or "Freer of Chains!" He offered kind words or smiles in return. The synergy was obvious—people thrived under this new system. Arya marveled at how men and women wearing simple clothing carried themselves with pride, no longer in shackles. She saw a difference from King's Landing: the air felt lighter, free of paranoid gloom.

Sansa, too, noticed the positivity, though she clutched her cloak, uncertain how to handle the crowd's informal respect for Jon. Some approached to offer fruit or small tokens of gratitude. He politely accepted, distributing them to children or passersby. The Wolf Pack soldiers patrolling the streets saluted, while Freedmen councils gave brief updates. Jon navigated all this with an ease that stunned Arya. He truly carried himself as a leader—still gentle, but with quiet authority.

After a time, they entered a large building serving as Jon's temporary throne room. The facade retained old Meereenese architecture—huge pillars carved with images of dragons devouring men, ironically echoing old Ghiscari or Valyrian motifs. Inside, the open hall had been cleared of gaudy relics, replaced with simpler banners. At the far end, on a raised dais, a plain seat had been installed. Not quite a throne, but a seat of authority.

Jon guided them to a smaller receiving chamber adjacent to the main hall. Torches flickered, chasing away the shadows. He waved off attendants, wanting privacy. Once alone with Arya, Sansa, Syrio, and the Faceless Man, he sighed, gesturing for them to sit around a low table. Servants brought spiced wine and tea. Arya plopped down, still trying to wrap her head around this setting. Sansa, lips pursed, gingerly sat across from Jon. Syrio and the assassin remained standing by the walls, watchful.

Jon steepled his fingers, gaze flicking to each in turn. "I must return to Westeros eventually. My birth… or rumored birth… might give me a claim. But I refuse to use you as pawns or weapons in that pursuit. So I offer you choices. If you wish to go home, I'll arrange passage and an escort. If you want to remain with me, I welcome it. The path forward is dangerous—I'm sure you realize that. War awaits us in Westeros, and the White Walkers remain the greatest threat. I can't guarantee your safety, whichever road you choose. So I leave it to you."

Arya shot upright. "I'm staying! I want to become a knight… or whatever you call them. I want to fight by your side, Jon. I won't run back to the North like a frightened child. Please let me remain."

Jon smiled, relief shining in his eyes. "Of course, Arya. I'd love to have you. You always wanted more than a lady's life. I can train you, guide you, but it's not easy. War is harsh. Are you certain?"

She nodded fiercely. "I'm certain."

Sansa, by contrast, lowered her gaze. "I… I can't stay. I need to go home. I want to see if Mother is safe, if the North is truly stable. I… can't handle more war, more strangeness. If you'll allow it, I'd prefer to return."

Jon regarded her gently. "I understand, Sansa. No ill will. I'll arrange for a safe escort to the nearest friendly port, from which you can sail or travel to the North, if that's what you desire."

She swallowed, nodding. "Thank you. I… I want to fix things at home if I can. Maybe help gather resources, or join Robb if that's wise. But I'm not a warrior like Arya. I can do more in a place that's familiar."

Jon inclined his head. "Then so be it. Tomorrow, we can finalize arrangements for your trip. Meanwhile, rest. The city might be overwhelming, but it's safer than King's Landing."

He glanced at the Faceless Man. "Would you escort Sansa to her quarters? Help her pack? I trust your vigilance."

The assassin bowed. "Yes, my lord." Sansa rose, glancing at Arya briefly, then at Jon. "Be well, brother— or cousin, or… I don't know. Just… be well."

He managed a faint smile. "Safe journey, Sansa. We'll cross paths again if fate allows." She left with the Faceless Man, leaving the chamber quieter.

Jon shifted his attention to Arya and Syrio. "Arya, you said you want to fight. I sense the Force in you, as I've begun to sense it in many. If you train under me, it's not just swordsmanship, but a deeper path. You sure you're ready for that?"

Arya blinked. "The Force… that's the power you used to conquer these cities? The same power Dany and Viserys harness? So I can… do magic like them?"

Jon chuckled softly. "Magic is one word for it. Another is intuition, empathy, telekinesis, different abilities that come from the living energy of the world. You can harness it for good or ill. I want to teach you properly, so you don't harm yourself or lose control."

Arya's eyes gleamed. "Yes, yes, I want that. If it can help me become strong enough to face any foe—like the Lannisters— sign me up. I'll do whatever you say."

Jon gave a fond grin. "All right. But we do this step by step. Syrio, I trust you remain her sword teacher in normal forms. I'll handle the Force aspect. For her sword form, I suspect a refined style might suit her better than raw aggression. Something like Form II, which emphasizes precision, footwork, minimal movement."

Syrio arched an intrigued brow. "Form II? A new name for a Braavosi style, or something else?"

Jon shrugged. "A mixture. I learned it from a teacher… from afar. It suits a graceful duelist. Arya's speed and agility might thrive under it."

Arya beamed, excitement shining. Syrio gave a short bow. "Then let us see how it merges with my water dance."

Jon nodded, satisfied. "We'll begin tomorrow. For now, rest. The day's been long, and I have duties to attend. Arya, come find me at sunrise in the main courtyard."

She hopped to her feet, brimming with eagerness, giving him a swift hug. "Yes, Jon. I… I still can't believe you're here, wearing a crown. But I'm so, so glad."

He ruffled her hair, chuckling. "Likewise, little sister. Or cousin. Or whatever we call ourselves." She laughed, then Syrio guided her out, leaving Jon alone in the flickering torchlight. He exhaled, letting the swirl of the day's events settle in his chest. He had conquered more land, brokered more alliances, orchestrated a new battle near Meereen. Now, at least, he had reconnected with two Stark sisters. Sansa would return to the North, hopefully safe. Arya would stay, learning the Force.

And beyond the horizon, Westeros remained locked in chaos, with Ned captive, Robb fighting the Lannisters, and the realm fracturing under a monstrous boy king. So many threads. Jon realized each passing day drew him closer to crossing the Narrow Sea. But first, he had to finalize Essos's unification, ensure resources for the great war to come. The White Walkers lurked, unstoppable if the realm stayed divided. His entire campaign of conquest was aimed at forging a shield large enough to defend all.

He sank into a seat, closing his eyes. The path was steep, the burden immense. But at least he had family by his side now—Dany, Viserys, Arya. That might be enough to sustain him through the next crucible.

Outside the window, the city's lights glimmered like fallen stars, and the night wind carried faint laughter from freedmen celebrating their new lives. Jon let that hopeful sound guide him into the uncertain tomorrow, determined to see a better future for them all.