A Requiem of Ash and Stars

CHAPTER 3: TRIALS IN WHITE HARBOR

Jon Snow arrived at the outskirts of White Harbor just as dawn's first light brushed the horizon in pale gold. The chill of the North still clung to him, but here, nearer the sea, the air carried a briny tang rather than the austere bite of Winterfell's winds. For two days he had traveled by carriage, then by foot when his coin ran short and he could no longer afford the ride. His muscles were sore from the journey, and a film of road dust clung to his cloak. Yet he felt a subdued excitement stirring beneath the weariness. This city—largest in the North, seat of House Manderly—stood upon the threshold of a life he was determined to claim for himself.

He paused atop a small ridge where the main road descended into the wide sprawl of White Harbor. The city walls gleamed faintly in the soft morning light. Beyond them, tall buildings rose, layered with white-washed walls and steep, dark roofs. He could make out the crenellations and towers of New Castle, the Manderly seat, near the water's edge. Mists clung to the banks of the White Knife River, which meandered through the city before emptying into the Bite. Ships' masts poked above the harbor in neat rows, sails furled for the night. Even at this early hour, the noise of dockworkers, fisherfolk, and street sellers drifted uphill—distant, muffled, but unmistakably alive.

Jon adjusted the strap of the pack slung over his shoulder, then took a breath. Already, he felt a sense of relief. White Harbor was part of the North, but it did not feel like Winterfell. The eyes here would not all belong to watchers who whispered "bastard" with their glares. He wore a plain sword at his hip—Northwatch, the same blade he had paid for with his own meager earnings back in Winterfell. His black cloak was pinned at the collar with a simple wooden clasp. The rest of his clothes were practical, unadorned, bought from local tradesmen who did not mind dealing with a baseborn son, so long as his coin was good.

Steeling himself, Jon began his descent into the city. He planned to find a ship named the Leviathan, rumored to sail for Valyria. A curse clung to the very name of that place—Valyria, once the seat of an ancient empire, now a haunted ruin of smoking seas and twisted stone. Countless stories said that doom lurked in those broken cities, but also hidden wonders, locked away since the cataclysm that consumed the Freehold. It was madness to venture there, many would say. Yet Jon had no illusions: he needed somewhere beyond the North's stifling judgments, somewhere he could carve out a future on his own terms.

He stepped through the city gates with the trickle of early-morning travelers. The guards scarcely gave him a second look—he was just another man with a sword, of which there were plenty. The walls of White Harbor were high and broad, built of pale stone, but they lacked the grimness of Winterfell's ancient battlements. Instead, a mild sense of commerce and industry pervaded, as though the city woke each morning eager to trade and fish and build. Jon's boots clicked on the cobbles as he passed through the outer ward and into the bustling streets beyond.

Vendors were setting up stalls of fresh-caught fish, piles of oysters in crates, jars of pickled herring. The tang of salt and brine sharpened the air until Jon's nostrils stung. Seagulls called overhead. Townsfolk in roughspun tunics hurried about, carrying baskets or pushing handcarts. A few wealthier citizens moved with guarded retinues, stepping around puddles left by the night's dew. Jon skirted the edge of Fishmonger's Square, his senses alight with the sheer energy of the place.

He asked a passing laborer about the Leviathan, describing it as a large vessel rumored to depart soon for Valyria. The laborer wiped sweat from his brow and directed Jon toward the western quays, where bigger ships tended to anchor. Jon nodded, thanked him, and moved on, weaving through the throng. He kept one hand near his coin purse—the same caution he had learned in Winterfell's markets told him that a crowded city was an ideal place for pickpockets.

As he proceeded, the buildings grew closer together, forming narrow alleys and cramped lanes. Many had timbers painted in a peeling white, reflecting House Manderly's colors. Others were simply grey stone, rising three or four stories with narrow windows. Clotheslines stretched overhead, flapping tattered laundry in the breeze. The smell of the sea was stronger than ever. Jon could hear the rhythmic creak of ships rocking at anchor.

He glanced up at the sky. The sun was higher now, the day bright. He still had a ways to go before reaching the harbor proper. His stomach rumbled; he realized he hadn't eaten since a sparse supper of dried bread the previous evening. Perhaps he would spend a copper or two on a meat pie from a street vendor. He still had some meager coin left from what he'd earned at Winterfell. Enough to sustain him for a few days, if he spent carefully.

As he turned onto a narrower street, lined with shuttered shops on one side and a tall stone wall on the other, he sensed something off. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He glanced about, noticing how few people were here—a stark contrast to the crowded square he had left. The scent of dead fish lingered in the air, but no one manned the stalls on this street. A cart stood abandoned near a corner, a broken wheel propped at an odd angle. Jon slowed his steps. Something felt…wrong. The Force, as Anakin taught him, gently nudged at his awareness. Danger?

He rested a hand on the hilt of Northwatch, staying alert. He had learned to trust such instincts. Sure enough, a moment later he saw movement: three figures stepping from the shadows of a narrow side alley. Their clothes were dirty, their postures predatory. One gripped a cudgel, another a short sword with a chipped blade, the third a dagger. All wore hardened expressions, the look of desperate men seeking easy prey.

"Morning to you," said the one with the cudgel. He was broad-shouldered, with a greasy beard. "Lovely day for a stroll, ain't it?"

Jon's heart thudded. He assessed them quickly—three men, not obviously trained soldiers but likely tough from street brawling. He forced his voice calm. "I've no quarrel with you. Let me pass."

The second man with the short sword sneered, his teeth yellow. "Oh, you'll pass, all right, after you leave us that pretty coin purse and that sword on your hip."

Jon braced himself. He might have tried to walk away, but they had him cornered. Could he outrun them? Possibly, but not without turning his back, and they clearly intended violence. He lifted his chin. "I think not. Let me pass, or you'll regret it."

The third man—the one with the dagger—laughed. "Big talk from a pup with a sword. Must be some green sellsword or a runaway knight. Don't matter. Hand it over."

They advanced. Jon inhaled, letting his mind settle. He had no wish to kill these men. They were desperate, perhaps; life in the city could be cruel. But he would defend himself. He called upon the calm center Anakin had taught him, letting his anger or frustration pass like water. The Force thrummed, reminding him of the forms he had practiced.

The first man lunged with his cudgel. Jon sidestepped, letting the blow glance off the stone wall behind him. He drew Northwatch in a single smooth motion. The steel glinted in the sunlight that filtered through the alley. "Back away," he warned.

The man with the short sword tried a thrust at Jon's chest. Jon whipped his blade around in a quick parry, stepping into the motion so that the short sword was deflected wide. Then, with the hilt of Northwatch, he struck the man in the jaw. The bandit yelped, staggering, spitting blood. Jon had pulled the blow to avoid caving the man's skull in.

The one with the cudgel recovered, swinging a horizontal strike at Jon's ribs. Jon pivoted, letting the Force guide his reflexes. He reversed his grip on the sword, hooking the cudgel's shaft, and twisted it free from the bandit's grip. The man stumbled with an oath. Jon could have followed up with a lethal slash, but he chose not to. Instead, he brought his sword's pommel down on the bandit's shoulder, sending him reeling in pain.

The dagger-wielder seized the chance to dart in from Jon's blind side. He slashed, aiming for Jon's kidney. Jon barely twisted aside in time, feeling the dagger's edge graze his cloak. He gasped, turning to meet the next strike, but the bandit was quick. The man feinted high, then stabbed lower. Jon let the Force sharpen his awareness. In a flash, he shifted his feet, caught the bandit's forearm with his free hand, and used the momentum to shove him into the stone wall. The bandit cried out, dagger clattering to the ground.

Breathing hard, Jon stepped back. The three men regrouped, glaring, clutching bruises. One tried to pick up the dagger again, but Jon leveled Northwatch at them. "That's enough," he said, voice firm. "I don't want to kill you. Walk away."

For a heartbeat, he thought they might press the attack out of sheer desperation. Then, footsteps pounded on the cobbles, and voices rang out: "Stop in the name of the city watch!"

A squad of White Harbor guards burst onto the street, wearing surcoats embroidered with a merman sigil. Their captain, a burly woman with a halberd, took in the scene at once: three battered men, one with a drawn sword, another brandishing a dagger. "Drop your weapons!" she barked. "All of you. Now!"

Jon obeyed immediately, letting Northwatch's point lower. He carefully set his sword on the ground, showing that he meant no harm. The three bandits, seeing they were outnumbered, hesitated, then dropped their arms as well. The guards surrounded them, halberds and spears at the ready.

The captain glared from Jon to the trio of men. "What's all this, then?"

"They attacked me," Jon said quietly. "I only defended myself."

"He's lying!" spat the man with the short sword, still bleeding from the mouth. "He started swinging first. We just—"

"Silence," the captain growled. She eyed Jon's clothing, noting the sword belt and cloak. "We'll sort this out. For now, all four of you are under arrest for disturbing the peace and brandishing weapons in the city streets."

Jon wanted to protest, but realized it would do no good. The watch would arrest everyone and let the local lord decide. He raised his hands calmly. "I understand. I'll come peacefully."

One of the guards pinned his arms behind him, binding his wrists with a coarse rope. He did the same for the bandits. The captain stooped to pick up Jon's sword, examining it. Her brow furrowed. "Good steel. Didn't come cheap. Might fetch a price if it's forfeit." She frowned at him, suspicion in her eyes.

Jon said nothing, focusing on his breathing. The Force remained steady, encouraging him to stay calm. Perhaps if they inquired about his identity, they would realize he was no common thug. Then again, being a bastard might not hold much sway. He allowed himself to be led through the streets with the bandits, the guards forming a ring around them.

They wound their way through White Harbor's labyrinthine roads, moving closer to the city's heart. Crowds parted, some craning to see what commotion the guard had in tow. Jon ignored the curious looks, keeping his gaze on the cobblestones. He wondered if he would end up thrown into a cell for days, or if the local courts would let him speak. But after several minutes, the captain halted the group outside a building that looked more administrative than a dungeon.

As they entered, a steward in House Manderly colors approached, taking notes on a wax tablet. The captain explained the situation—four men brawling in the street, swords drawn. The steward glanced at Jon briefly, then at the bandits, who looked decidedly rougher. "We'll hold them," the steward said, "until Lord Manderly is finished with the matters in the main hall. He may pass judgment if it's serious enough. Or perhaps the city magistrate will handle it."

The bandits were led down one corridor, while Jon was taken down another, presumably to a holding cell. He tried to remain composed, though frustration pricked at him. All he'd wanted was to find the Leviathan, and now he was stuck in some city jail. He half-wondered if a bribe might free him, but he had little coin and no appetite for such dealings.

Before he could be locked in a cell, however, a new commotion sounded near the entrance. Jon glimpsed a small entourage entering—several knights or guards in fine livery, and behind them, a large man in a blue-and-white robe, ringed fingers clasped across a generous belly. That had to be Lord Wyman Manderly, the liege of White Harbor. Jon recognized him from descriptions: broad of body, with thinning gray hair, a kindly but shrewd face.

One of the men in the entourage murmured something to Lord Manderly and pointed toward Jon. The lord's gaze flicked over to him. Jon's cheeks warmed. He saw the flicker of realization in the lord's eyes. Then Manderly strode forward, ignoring the stern look from the captain of the guard.

"Is that Jon Snow?" Lord Manderly asked, voice resonant. "Ned Stark's boy?"

The captain cleared her throat, clearly uncertain. "He gave no name, my lord, but—"

"Unbind him," Lord Manderly commanded. "At once."

The guards hesitated, but a single nod from their captain made them comply. The coarse rope fell away from Jon's wrists. He rubbed the skin where it had chafed. Lord Manderly studied him closely, a mix of curiosity and… was that regret? Or pity?

"Jon Snow indeed," the lord said, folding his arms. "I heard you left Winterfell, but I hadn't expected you to turn up in my fair city under arrest. What happened?"

Jon bowed his head respectfully. "My lord, I was attacked by bandits. I defended myself without lethal force. The guards arrived and took us all into custody."

Lord Manderly shifted his gaze to the guard captain. "Is that so?"

She looked slightly embarrassed. "We found them fighting. We didn't know who started it, so we brought them all in."

Lord Manderly let out a thoughtful hum, then patted Jon's shoulder. "If Ned Stark's boy says he was attacked, I believe him. The others can face the magistrates. As for Jon Snow… I think we can do better than a holding cell. Jon, you'll come with me."

Jon struggled to find the right words. "Thank you, my lord."

Manderly smiled, though there was a touch of sadness in his eyes. "Not at all. You're a guest now. Let's see you fed and bathed, shall we? I imagine you're hungry after that unpleasantness."

Jon's stomach growled at the mention of food. "A bit," he admitted.

The lord turned to his entourage. "We'll conduct our regular business, but first, fetch a meal and some fresh garments for Jon. Then he can join me in the castle for an evening feast. We have much to discuss." Then, to Jon, more quietly: "I won't keep you long if you've pressing tasks. But let me at least show some hospitality."

Jon inclined his head, still reeling at this sudden turn of fortune. "I'd be honored, my lord."

The guard captain stepped aside as Lord Manderly's men led Jon out of the building. The three bandits, meanwhile, were marched off in chains. As they passed, the one with the bruised jaw cursed under his breath. Jon felt a pang of sympathy but knew they had tried to rob him. This was their own doing.

Thus, within an hour, Jon found himself in a small guest chamber somewhere within the labyrinth of New Castle's outer buildings. Servants brought a wooden tub of steaming water. Jon sank into it, letting the heat wash away the grime of the road and the tension of the fight. It felt strange, after so many nights spent sleeping on hard ground, to have this comfort. Still, he wouldn't complain. He needed to appear presentable for the lord who had kindly intervened.

He tried to keep his mind calm, open to the Force as Anakin had taught him, but his thoughts whirled. Why had Lord Manderly taken such interest in him? Perhaps courtesy alone—he was, after all, Eddard Stark's acknowledged son, if not legitimate. Then again, maybe Manderly had his own reasons for wanting to speak with a rogue bastard of House Stark. Jon had no illusions about the complexities of politics.

When he finished bathing, servants helped him don a simple but fine tunic of blue linen, borrowed from some storeroom. It was a bit large in the shoulders, but it would suffice. His own clothes were set aside to be cleaned. He belted his sword around his waist, feeling more comfortable with Northwatch close by. Then, at an attendant's prompting, he followed a winding corridor into the main keep.

They led Jon into a spacious feasting hall, its walls bedecked with banners of House Manderly—a merman on a pale field, clutching a trident. Trestle tables stretched the length of the hall. At the far end, on a dais, stood a higher table with carved chairs. The scent of roasted meats and spiced stews made Jon's stomach rumble once again.

Lord Wyman Manderly was already there, speaking in low tones to a pair of retainers. He dismissed them when Jon approached. Up close, Jon could see lines of age around the lord's eyes, and a certain heaviness in his expression that suggested both affability and caution. When he noticed Jon, he beamed.

"Jon Snow," he said warmly. "Come, sit with me. The kitchens are just finishing their preparations, so we can talk a while. You must be famished."

Jon bowed slightly, stepping onto the dais and taking a seat near the lord. A servant placed a goblet before him, filling it with light ale. Another brought slices of bread and butter, which Jon gratefully sampled, trying not to devour them too quickly. Lord Manderly watched him with an indulgent smile, then turned serious.

"It's been years since I saw you last," he said. "You were a boy then, trailing after young Robb in Winterfell's yard. I recall you were quiet, watchful. Ned Stark's rumored indiscretion, they said… well, that's none of my business." He paused, swirling his own cup. "I had heard rumors you left Winterfell. Might I ask why?"

Jon swallowed. He had half expected this question. "I wasn't truly wanted there, my lord. With Lady Stark's… feelings about me, and the fact that I can claim no inheritance, I saw no future except the Wall. But I had no desire to live that life. So I left."

Lord Manderly's gaze softened. "I see. In truth, it's not surprising. We all knew Lady Stark never took kindly to you, but we turned a blind eye. We did nothing." His mouth curved into a faint frown. "I can't fault Ned's sense of honor, but the arrangement always seemed precarious for you."

Jon nodded, not trusting himself to speak further on that. He sipped from the ale instead. The bitterness of it matched the pang in his chest. Indeed, no one in the North had stepped forward to champion the bastard's cause. He could not entirely blame them, but neither could he forgive them.

Manderly sighed. "I heard whispers that you seek passage on a ship bound for Valyria. A certain Leviathan?" He said the words quietly, but with curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "Is that true?"

Jon raised his head, meeting the lord's gaze. "Yes, my lord, it is. That's why I came to White Harbor. I aim to sail, if the captain will have me. I've heard rumors the Leviathan departs soon to explore the ruins."

"Do you know how dangerous that is?" Manderly asked gently. "Valyria's cursed, if half the tales are true. Some say no ship returns from the Smoking Sea. Others claim the land is haunted by stone men or monstrous creatures. Why risk it?"

Jon considered how best to answer. He could not speak openly of the Force or the deeper sense of destiny he felt. Instead, he spoke simply. "I have no place here, my lord. In the North, I'm always the bastard. In the south, I'd still be just that, or less. Beyond the sea, though, I might find a future where my name doesn't matter. I'm good with a sword—perhaps I'll earn a living, or find treasure. At least I can forge a path on my own terms."

Manderly sighed again, setting down his cup. "You remind me of a young man I once knew, full of longing to see the world beyond the North's borders. That man never did leave, though. Life and duty kept him rooted. But you—" He looked Jon in the eye. "I see you will not be swayed easily. Would it help if I told you the Leviathan's captain is no simple merchant? He's a hardened man who expects his crew to be the best. They say he plans a test of arms: a melee to weed out the unskilled. Only the victors can join the voyage. And even those might regret it later."

Jon's heart pounded. He had not heard about a melee. A test of arms? That might be his chance to prove himself. Yet if only knights or known warriors were allowed, he might be denied again. "I see. Then I will prove my worth. I've been trained well enough."

Manderly's lips curled into something like a sad smile. "Normally, only knights or men with recognized skill are admitted to such a contest. Without a name or backing, you'd likely be turned away. But…" He hesitated, as though weighing something internally. "But I owe you a debt of sorts. Not a debt to you personally, but a debt to my own conscience. I did nothing while you suffered Lady Stark's scorn. Perhaps I can make amends, in a small way."

Jon blinked, a hint of surprise flaring in his chest. "My lord?"

At that moment, servants arrived, bearing platters of roast duck in gravy, carrots braised in honey, fresh bread, and a fragrant fish stew. They laid the meal before Jon and Manderly with quiet efficiency. Jon's stomach growled. Manderly nodded for him to eat, and Jon did so, savoring the rich flavors. He hadn't tasted such a feast in ages.

Once the servants withdrew, Manderly spoke softly, as though sharing a secret. "I can sponsor you, Jon. If I place my name behind yours, the Leviathan's captain cannot refuse you entry into the melee. Once you're in the ring, your skill can speak for itself. And if you win through, you'll secure a place on the voyage. Would you accept my sponsorship?"

Jon felt a flood of gratitude. He set down his spoon. "I… yes, my lord, of course. Thank you. But why do this for me? You've said it's about your conscience, but truly, you owe me nothing. I'm only a bastard."

A flicker of pain crossed Manderly's face. "Even bastards are children once, Jon. Children who deserve kindness. The North is supposed to value honor, but we turned away. Lady Stark is well-loved, so no one wanted to confront her. I was among those who averted their eyes. My younger self might have aided you, but I lacked the courage to speak. Let me right that wrong in this small way."

Jon could not entirely put the swirl of emotions into words. Relief, surprise, a bit of humility. He bowed his head. "You have my thanks. I won't forget this."

"Don't make me regret it," Manderly replied lightly, though his eyes were warm. "Now eat. You'll need your strength. The melee is tomorrow morning, at the old training grounds near the harbor district. I'll announce you as my sponsored man. The captain wants to whittle down a hundred or so applicants to ten who will sail with him. Survive, and you'll be guaranteed a place on the Leviathan."

Jon nodded, appetite suddenly renewed. He tore a chunk of bread, dipping it in the stew. The flavors burst on his tongue, but his mind already raced, anticipating the challenge. A hundred applicants, only ten spots. Jon had faced training bouts and even real fights, but never a mass melee with that many combatants. He would have to trust his skills, and the Force, to carry him through.

Manderly watched him closely. "You seem confident."

"I have reason to be," Jon said after swallowing. "I was trained by men of Winterfell. And I've… practiced extensively. I'm no knight, but I can handle myself."

"That's good," Manderly said. "But be careful. Some of those who seek passage to Valyria are sellswords with decades of experience, or hedge knights with iron-hard reflexes. They'll fight like cornered animals to secure a place on that ship. There's gold rumored to be involved, after all. And glory. Or at least, the chance for it."

Jon absorbed that caution, determined not to underestimate anyone. He continued eating in silence for a time, savoring the tender duck and the honeyed carrots. Manderly ate as well, though more slowly, occasionally sipping from a chalice of wine. The hall was largely empty, save for a few servants or courtiers drifting at a respectful distance.

Eventually, when they had eaten their fill, Manderly offered a final measure of hospitality. "Jon, while you remain in White Harbor, I insist you stay here as my guest. It's the least I can do for Ned Stark's son. And it will be easier for me to present you properly at the melee tomorrow."

Jon nodded, gratitude mixing with relief. He did not have the coin for a decent inn, and certainly not for the sort of lodging that would allow him to rest well before a big fight. "I accept. Thank you, Lord Manderly."

Manderly gestured for a servant. "Show Jon Snow to one of the guest chambers. Make sure he has everything he needs. We want him well rested for the tournament tomorrow." He turned back to Jon, raising a brow. "If you have any concerns, let me know. My castle is yours for the duration."

Jon bowed. "You have my thanks."

With that, Manderly waved him on, turning to speak quietly with a retainer. Jon followed the servant, feeling a kind of weight lifted from his shoulders. He had worried that arriving in White Harbor as a nobody, a bastard, would doom his chances. Instead, fate—perhaps guided by the Force—had placed him in Lord Manderly's path. Now, he had both a roof over his head and a sponsor for the melee.

But he would have to fight. Hard. And if he lost, this opportunity vanished. Pushing aside doubts, he reminded himself that he was no longer the overshadowed child at Winterfell's margins. He was a Jedi in training, shaped by Anakin's teachings. He had survived more than scorn. He would survive this melee, too.

Jon's new chamber in the castle was modest but comfortable, with a small hearth, a sturdy bed, and a shuttered window overlooking a courtyard. He set his sword belt on a nearby chair and tested the bed. It was firm, far better than the straw pallets he'd known. A single candle flickered on a table, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. Outside, the sky was deepening into evening. He could hear distant laughter from some part of the castle, servants going about their tasks.

He let out a breath. Now that he was alone, he felt the swirl of conflicting energies in his chest—relief, anticipation, nerves. He crossed to the window, opened the shutter, and peered out. The courtyard below was lit by torches, revealing the silhouette of a small garden, a fountain, and a path that wound toward another wing of the castle.

His mind drifted to Anakin—his mentor, guide, friend. The Force projection that appeared so often in Winterfell's godswood had followed Jon here, at least in spirit. But, in the brightness of day and the bustle of the city, Jon had not yet seen him. Now might be the time to open himself to the Force and see if Anakin was near.

He turned from the window, kneeling on the floor with his back straight. He inhaled, closed his eyes, and let his thoughts settle. The bed's shadow flickered with the candle's flame. The silence in the room felt almost tangible, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearth. Jon eased his breathing, recalling the meditative exercises Anakin had taught him in the old godswood: quiet the mind, open yourself to the living Force, sense its currents.

After a few moments, he felt a gentle stirring, an intangible warmth. Then a soft shimmer of light coalesced near the hearth. Even with his eyes closed, Jon sensed Anakin's presence. Opening them, he saw the faint, bluish outline of the man who had once been Anakin Skywalker. The projection was faint but discernible, a tall figure in robes, features etched with a serene calm.

Jon felt relief flood him. "Master," he whispered. "I'm glad you're here."

Anakin offered a small smile. "You've done well, Jon. You kept your balance when attacked on the street. You did not let anger rule you."

Jon nodded. "I tried not to kill them. They were just desperate, perhaps."

"That compassion is part of what makes you strong," Anakin said quietly. "How do you feel now?"

Jon exhaled, running a hand through his dark hair. "Nervous. Grateful. Lord Manderly is sponsoring me in a melee tomorrow. I must fight my way to be among the final ten, or I can't board the Leviathan. I can't fail."

Anakin's form flickered slightly, as though from a wind no one else could feel. "Remember your training. Skill with the sword alone does not decide battles. The Force can guide your senses, help you read opponents. But do not let vanity or desperation push you to the edge of darkness. A Jedi fights in harmony with the Force, never letting fear or hate drive him."

Jon bowed his head. "I understand. I've come too far to lose my way."

Anakin studied him with those tranquil eyes. "What do you sense in the Force about your path?"

Jon closed his eyes, trying to grasp the currents swirling around him. "I sense…a sense of rightness. That I'm meant to be here. It's like the Force is… happy, if that makes sense. Happy I'm forging ahead."

Anakin nodded. "The Force can reflect such feelings. It resonates with every choice we make. You walk a path of independence, forging alliances, choosing compassion. That resonates well. But do you see anything beyond that? Any glimpse of the future?"

Jon's brow furrowed. "I… I'm not sure I'm capable of that yet, Master. I only sense vague possibilities."

"Would you like to try?" Anakin asked gently.

Jon hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, though I'm not sure how."

Anakin drifted closer, kneeling as well, though his form hovered slightly above the floor. "Close your eyes. Sink deeper into the Force, letting it fill your mind. But do not chase the future. Let it come as it will. The Force may show you glimpses, or it may remain silent. Accept either outcome."

Jon swallowed, then complied. He inhaled, exhaled, forcing each muscle to relax. He tried to open his awareness to the boundless energy that was the Force, the same energy that pulsed in every cell of his body and in every living thing outside these walls. For a moment, he felt a gentle hum, a sense of infinite expanse. He thought he saw a flicker of images: the mast of a ship… red skies… a city drowned in ash. Then they vanished. No clarity emerged, no coherent vision. Just a swirl of disconnected impressions.

After a few minutes, he shook his head, eyes fluttering open. "It's…not working. I can't piece anything together."

Anakin's expression remained kind. "It's all right. Future-sight is elusive, even for trained Jedi. You're still learning. Perhaps in time, when the Force deems you ready, you'll see more."

Jon nodded, though a trace of disappointment prickled him. "Thank you for trying."

Anakin's form flickered again. "Your body needs rest for tomorrow. Sleep, Jon. Gather your strength. I'll be near if you need me."

Jon bowed his head once more, gratitude filling him. Then, as quickly as he had appeared, Anakin's image faded into the darkness, leaving Jon alone by the flickering hearth. The candle had burned low, shadows dancing on the walls. Realizing how tired he was, Jon rose and crossed to the bed. He pulled off his borrowed tunic, leaving on a thin undershirt, and slipped beneath the blankets.

Despite the tension of the upcoming melee, he found sleep tugging at him almost immediately. His eyes closed, and he drifted into unconsciousness, guided by the gentle hush of the Force.

He awoke at dawn to a rap on the chamber door. A servant's voice called softly, "Ser? The tournament field awaits. Lord Manderly asks that you join him in the courtyard."

Jon sat up, heart pounding with instant alertness. Today was the day. He threw off the blankets, dressed quickly in his own clothes—thankfully cleaned and dried overnight. He checked Northwatch's blade, satisfied it was sharp. Then he slipped the sword belt around his waist. Ready or not, the melee beckoned.

He followed the servant through several corridors and down a flight of stairs. The sun was just peeking over the city's rooftops, bathing the courtyard in pale morning light. Lord Manderly stood there with a few household knights, conversing in low voices. When he saw Jon, he nodded in greeting.

"My champion arrives," the lord said with a smile. "Eat quickly. I had some bread and boiled eggs prepared. Then we'll ride to the tournament grounds." He gestured to a small table set up near the stables.

Jon thanked him and wolfed down a hasty breakfast, adrenaline already coursing through him. Nearby, stablehands readied horses. Manderly had a stout mare saddled, and a second horse for Jon, a dappled gelding that pawed the ground impatiently. Jon had never been the best rider, but he could manage well enough.

Before long, they mounted up. A small escort joined them, including a herald who carried a banner of House Manderly. They made their way through the city's streets at a leisurely pace, Manderly occasionally exchanging greetings with citizens who recognized him. Jon rode behind, feeling self-conscious but reminding himself that soon he would be in the thick of a different arena.

The harbor district was already abuzz with talk of the melee. Word had spread that Captain Rodrik Stone of the Leviathan had offered rich prizes to those who proved themselves. Only a handful would be chosen to sail for Valyria—some said ten, some said fewer. Crowds had gathered at an old training yard near the docks, a large space ringed by wooden palisades that served as a makeshift arena. Jon could see stands being set up, with onlookers and curious townsfolk jostling for vantage points. The morning sun glinted off steel as hopeful fighters tested their weapons or adjusted their armor.

Jon dismounted, handing the reins to a stableboy. Lord Manderly did the same, then rested a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Let's see about announcing you, shall we?"

They approached the ring of men who seemed to be organizing the event. Jon recognized Captain Stone from the description he'd heard: a tall, broad-shouldered man in a worn coat with a wide-brimmed hat, salt-and-pepper beard framing a stern face. He was speaking to a few associates—likely quartermasters or hired swords. Manderly raised a hand in greeting.

"Captain Stone," the lord called in a booming voice. "Wyman Manderly of White Harbor. I'm here to sponsor a participant in your competition."

Captain Stone turned, eyes narrowing slightly. He gave a stiff bow. "My lord. A privilege to have your presence. I had not heard you'd be attending."

Manderly smiled genially. "One never knows where a good fight will be. I have a man who wishes to compete. His name is Jon Snow, and I vouch for him." He beckoned Jon forward.

Captain Stone's gaze raked over Jon, from the boots to the sword hilt. A flicker of recognition, then a grunt. "We've had near a hundred sign up, my lord. But if you sponsor him, I suppose he can join. We can always use another body in the ring. The Leviathan only wants the strongest, though. If he's not up to the task, I won't coddle him."

"I expect no coddling," Jon said calmly. "Only fair entry."

Stone gave a curt nod. "Then sign your name on the ledger. The rules are simple enough: no killing if it can be helped, but accidents happen. No sharpened arrows, no lethal poisons. Beyond that, anything goes. You'll fight with steel or blunt weapons, your choice. Last man breathing wins. But we don't stop until only ten remain, out of a hundred. Understand?"

Jon nodded, feeling adrenaline spike through him. "Understood."

Manderly's face grew serious. "Be careful, Jon. I'd hate to see you grievously injured."

"I'll take care," Jon replied quietly, though part of him recognized that caution might not be enough. A hundred fighters in a melee could be chaotic, with swords swinging in every direction. One slip could end it all.

Captain Stone guided them to a table where a clerk wrote names in a large book. Jon stated his, then paused as the clerk asked, "Title?" He had none. Lord Manderly intervened gently, "He is my sponsored champion. That will suffice as rank." The clerk nodded, adding a note.

Once done, Jon stepped away, letting the next participants sign in. Nearby, other fighters were preparing. Most wore partial plate or chainmail. Some had expensive helms, others carried massive shields. Jon felt a pang of concern—he had no armor beyond his leather jerkin, which offered minimal protection. He could only rely on speed and skill.

He overheard the chatter of the crowd: names of famous sellswords, minor knights, and even a few anointed knights from across Westeros. One burly man boasted of fighting in the Stepstones. Another claimed to have hunted White Walkers beyond the Wall. Jon frowned, suspecting half these tales were lies, but still, the men were likely hardened.

Standing at the edge of the ring, Jon took deep breaths. He tried to spot if anyone else lacked heavy armor. He saw only one other man, a lean figure wearing light leather, his head uncovered, dark hair combed back. He carried a spear strapped across his back. Something about him suggested confidence. Jon could not place the face, but he was definitely no ordinary hedge knight.

Lord Manderly joined him, speaking softly. "Notice that fellow with the spear? He arrived quietly, but I suspect he's no novice. He refuses heavier armor, says it hampers him. Be wary if you cross blades."

Jon nodded. "He must be confident to go nearly unarmored." Then again, so was Jon, albeit out of necessity.

Soon, a herald stepped forward to address the crowd, which had grown thick. Townsfolk peered over the palisade, cheering their favorites or placing wagers. The herald read from a scroll in a loud voice, explaining the melee's nature: one hundred men enter, but only ten remain. That final ten would earn the right to board the Leviathan, along with a purse of coin advanced by the captain. The crowd roared its approval. The herald then called for Captain Stone to confirm, which he did with a curt nod.

The fighters stood in a cluster at one end of the field. Jon found himself shoulder to shoulder with men in steel breastplates and horned helms. A few carried greatswords or maces that looked formidable. The lean spearman was off to the side, stretching languidly as though this were routine. Jon rolled his shoulders, letting his cloak hang behind him. The day was warming quickly.

Across the field, Captain Stone raised a hand, waiting for silence. "Warriors!" he bellowed. "Your goal is simple: outlast the others. When only ten remain standing, the melee ends. Fight as you will, but remember—unnecessary killing won't be tolerated. If a man yields or is clearly beaten, do not finish him off. We have healers standing by, but we will punish murder. Understood?"

A rumble of assent rose. Jon closed his eyes briefly, letting the Force wash through him. His heart hammered, but he breathed slowly, recalling Anakin's guidance. He would need calm, not frenzy.

"Begin on my signal," Stone said. "Three… two… one…"

A horn blasted, echoing across the field. The melee began in a chaos of steel.

Jon launched into motion, stepping away from the thickest knot of bodies to avoid being overwhelmed. Instantly, the ring dissolved into smaller skirmishes as men singled out enemies or formed ad-hoc teams. The clang of metal on metal filled the air. Dust kicked up around stomping boots. Shouts, curses, and the ringing of blades turned the training yard into a maelstrom.

A knight in partial plate lunged at Jon with a longsword. Jon slipped aside, blocking a follow-up slash with Northwatch. The shock jarred his arms. The knight, confident in his armor, pressed forward. Jon recognized a standard pattern—heavy overhead blows to break a guard. He let the Force guide him, pivoting around the knight's power. With a deft parry, he turned one blow wide, then delivered a quick slash to the knight's side, the blade skidding across metal but finding a gap near the armpit. The knight yelled in pain, dropping to one knee. Jon swiftly kicked the sword from his grasp. "Yield," Jon barked.

Gasping, the knight nodded. Jon left him behind, trusting the man would be carried off by the watchers if he was done. Already, two more fighters came at Jon from different sides—a tall sellsword with an axe and a small man wielding twin daggers. Jon exhaled, stepping back to keep them both in view.

The axe swung in a broad arc, threatening to cleave Jon's head from his shoulders. Jon ducked, spinning to the side. The dagger-wielder darted in, aiming for Jon's flank. Jon whipped his sword around, parrying one dagger, while hooking a foot around the man's ankle. The small man stumbled, giving Jon a chance to deliver a pommel strike to the face. Blood sprayed from the bandit's nose. He toppled with a groan.

The axe-man roared, furious at seeing his ally fall, and came at Jon again. Jon braced, waited for the overhead strike, then sidestepped at the last instant. He felt the rush of air as the axe whooshed by. In a single fluid motion, Jon slashed the man's forearm. The sellsword howled, dropping the weapon. Jon thrust the tip of Northwatch near his throat. "Yield."

"I yield!" the man rasped, holding his bleeding arm. Jon whirled, scanning for the next threat.

All around him, the field was a storm of battles. Some men fought in clusters of three or four. Others circled each other, testing skill. Here and there, wounded fighters cried for mercy or lay unconscious. The watchers, in bright tabards, tried to pull the incapacitated from the field. Occasionally, Jon heard the clang of steel on steel so vicious that it might have ended in death, but he forced himself to stay focused on survival.

He advanced carefully, stepping over the groaning form of a man clutching a battered shield. Another fighter—helmetless, eyes wild—charged at Jon with a flail. Jon parried once, felt the flail's chain wrap around his blade. He twisted the sword free, letting the flail's momentum carry it overhead. Then he drove a quick knee into the man's midsection, toppling him. Before the man could rise, Jon pressed the blade to his neck. "Yield."

A frantic nod. Jon moved on, feeling sweat drip down his brow. The sun climbed higher, intensifying the dust and heat. He realized with some small amazement that he had bested four opponents already, none of them lightly armed. Northwatch was proving its worth—its balance allowed him quick maneuvering. More crucially, the Force guided his reflexes, letting him anticipate strikes an instant before they landed. He had to remain calm amid the chaos, or risk being overwhelmed.

Soon, he found himself near the center of the field, where several formidable fighters clashed. One wore a surcoat with a boar sigil, wielding a greatsword that sent foes reeling. Another was a mail-clad knight with a flanged mace. Jon hesitated, scanning for an opening, when suddenly a spear thrust parted the crowd. The lean man with the spear—unarmored except for light leather—slipped through, moving with uncanny agility. He jabbed the boar-sigiled fighter's leg, bringing him down. Then he whirled, parrying the knight's mace with the spear's haft, following up with a slash from the spear's tip that caught the knight's helm. A bright clang rang out. The knight stumbled, losing all sense of direction, and the spearman knocked him aside with a flourish.

Jon's breath caught. This spearman was clearly an expert. He used fluid footwork, striking vulnerable gaps with lethal precision. More than that, there was a certain flair to his movements—like a dance. A flash of amusement lit the man's face as if he found the melee entertaining. His skin was sun-browned, a warm olive tone, and he wore his hair tied back. Jon realized he must be Dornish. Dorne… the Red Viper…?

No time to dwell on rumors. Another fighter, a brute with a spiked club, charged Jon from behind. Jon sensed the threat an instant before it landed. He spun, sword raised, meeting the club in a jarring block. They traded blows, the man's raw strength staggering. But the Force whispered that raw strength could be turned aside. Jon let each mighty swing carry the brute off-balance, stepped in close, and delivered a precise cut across the man's calf. The brute howled, collapsing. Jon rapped him on the head with the flat of his blade, ensuring he stayed down. That was six foes defeated.

Meanwhile, the chaos thinned as more were forced out. Jon realized at least half the field lay scattered with groaning fighters. The watchers dragged them clear, some conscious, some not. Only the determined or highly skilled remained, circling warily or engaging in pairs. He saw at least one group of four banding together, trying to pick off isolated targets. Jon steered clear of them, not wanting to be overwhelmed.

He parried another sudden strike from a swordsman with a tattered surcoat, dispatching him with a quick slash across the thigh. "Yield," Jon demanded, and the man slumped, nodding weakly. Seven.

His arms ached. Each block sent shocks up his muscles, and sweat burned his eyes. But he pressed on. The numbers continued to dwindle. From the corner of his vision, he glimpsed the spearman dropping opponents left and right with effortless skill, rarely letting them close enough to land a hit. The watchers outside the ring murmured excitedly, clearly impressed by such prowess.

Eventually, the melee reached a stage of near stasis. Perhaps twenty fighters remained, spread across the field. Some faced off in pairs or small clusters. Others, like Jon, hovered on the outskirts, catching their breath. The crowd roared from the stands. Captain Stone and Lord Manderly watched from a raised platform. Jon caught a glimpse of Manderly's anxious expression. The lord seemed astonished at Jon's progress.

A herald's voice rang out above the din: "Twenty remain! Choose your opponents for single combat until only ten stand!"

Jon breathed heavily, letting that command sink in. He needed to survive just one more fight. If he won, he'd be among the final ten. If he lost, the dream ended. He cast about the field, searching for a suitable foe. Most of the remaining men also looked around, measuring up potential adversaries.

Then, as though by fate, the spearman turned his gaze on Jon. Their eyes locked across the dusty ground. The man lifted his spear in a salute, a wry smile tugging his lips. He pointed the spear at Jon, clearly choosing him. Jon swallowed, heart lurching. He suspected this was the most dangerous fighter left. Yet perhaps the spearman had concluded the same about Jon.

They approached one another warily, stepping around the bodies of the fallen. The onlookers fell silent, sensing a match of note was about to begin. The spearman's face glistened with sweat, but his breathing seemed unlabored. Up close, he carried himself with the lithe confidence of a panther. Jon realized he had no shield, only the spear. That meant incredible skill if he had already survived this far.

Jon gave a slight bow. "I am Jon Snow."

The spearman responded in a soft Dornish accent. "Well met, Jon Snow. I am Oberyn."

Jon recognized the name Oberyn, though he could not recall precisely. Something about a Dornish prince who was famous for skill with a spear. But he had no time to puzzle it out. He raised Northwatch, bracing his feet. Oberyn nodded, adjusting his grip, eyes glinting.

They lunged simultaneously. Oberyn's spear jabbed at Jon's midsection with lightning speed. Jon sidestepped, parrying with a diagonal sweep. Oberyn twisted away, pivoting around Jon's blade, aiming a slash at Jon's flank with the spear's edge. Jon narrowly turned it aside, stepping in closer. But Oberyn reversed his hold, hooking the spear around Jon's sword arm. Jon grunted, jerking free before the spear could tangle him. The crowd gasped at the swift exchange.

They broke apart, circling. Jon exhaled, letting the Force guide him. Oberyn feinted high, then thrust low. Jon parried just in time, steel ringing on steel. Oberyn's speed was astonishing—he attacked from angles that demanded near-instant reflexes to block. Jon found himself forced backward, each strike sending shockwaves through his arms. Yet each time, he managed to parry or dodge by the slimmest margin.

Sensing an opening, Jon abruptly shifted styles. He let the Force flow, adopting a calmer, more precise stance reminiscent of Makashi. Oberyn recognized the change but pressed the attack. Their weapons clashed again and again, the ring of steel echoing. Jon managed a quick riposte, aiming for Oberyn's unprotected shoulder. Oberyn leaned away, letting the blade pass a hairsbreadth from his flesh, then countered with a thrust that Jon barely deflected.

Dust swirled beneath their feet. The onlookers roared encouragement, enthralled by their skill. Jon glimpsed the other fighters also locked in single combats, but this duel seemed to draw the greatest attention. Lord Manderly watched with parted lips. Captain Stone frowned thoughtfully.

Blow after blow, the two men tested each other. Oberyn's spear flickered like a serpent's tongue, darting for legs, arms, neck. Jon matched each thrust with careful footwork, stepping inside the arc of the spear at times to slash at Oberyn's torso. Twice he scored glancing hits, tearing the man's tunic, but leaving no deep wound. Oberyn retaliated with a sharp jab that cut a shallow line on Jon's forearm, drawing blood.

They broke apart again, panting. Jon's limbs felt leaden with fatigue. Oberyn also breathed harder, though his grin suggested he relished the challenge. "You're good," he said softly. "Better than many knights I've fought. Not often I meet someone who fights with such…unpredictable style."

Jon managed a breathless smile. "You're not so bad yourself."

They launched at each other once more, each determined to land a decisive strike. Steel clanged, echoing in Jon's skull. He tried a feint to Oberyn's left, then pivoted for the right. Oberyn read it, stepping away gracefully. The spear's wooden haft cracked against Jon's shoulder, numbing his arm. Jon hissed, retaliating with an upward slash that Oberyn dodged by dropping to one knee, sweeping the spear low at Jon's ankles. Jon jumped, narrowly evading the trip. He attempted to bring his blade down on Oberyn's back mid-leap, but Oberyn rolled aside.

They rose again, inhaling sharply. Suddenly, a horn blew—two long blasts. The watchers shouted in unison. Jon and Oberyn froze, weapons half-raised. Across the field, a herald cried out, "Stop! We have our ten! The melee is ended!"

Jon's gaze flicked around. Indeed, while he and Oberyn fought, the other pairs must have concluded. Some men lay unconscious, others nursed wounds. Only ten, including them, still stood on their feet. The fight was over. The top ten had been decided.

For a beat, Jon and Oberyn locked eyes, both adrenaline-charged, uncertain whether to continue. Then Oberyn let out a low laugh and lowered his spear. Jon lowered Northwatch as well, swallowing the dryness in his throat. Applause thundered around them, the crowd cheering their duel.

A herald stepped forward into the ring, flanked by Captain Stone and a retinue of onlookers. One by one, the final ten were announced. Jon Snow's name rang out, followed by scattered cheers—some recognized him as Manderly's champion, others had placed wagers on him. Oberyn was also named, though the herald simply called him "Oberyn of Dorne." Another few knights, a couple sellswords, and one or two men wearing no sigils completed the group. Each looked battered and exhausted, but victorious.

Captain Stone raised his arms for silence. "You ten have proven your mettle. You may join the Leviathan as part of my expedition to Valyria. We sail in one week's time from the western quay. Gather your gear, settle your affairs, and be aboard by dawn of that day. Fail to appear, and you lose your berth. Any questions?"

No one spoke, still catching their breath. The captain nodded sharply. "Good." Then he turned to the waiting crowd. "This melee is done! Clear the field for the healers. Let these victors rest. There's a cask of ale for them at the edge of the yard."

A whoop went up from some spectators, though many departed, their curiosity sated. Jon exhaled relief, sheathing Northwatch. He turned to Oberyn, extending a hand. "Well fought. That was close."

Oberyn clasped his forearm in a gesture of respect. His dark eyes gleamed. "Likewise. I suspect we'll have a rematch in calmer circumstances." He grinned. "You move like no Northman I've met."

Jon shrugged, not sure how to reply. He was still reeling from the fact that the fight ended in a draw. He hadn't truly learned who Oberyn was—only that he was exceptionally skilled. But a stirring of excitement fluttered in his chest: he had done it. He was going to Valyria.

Lord Manderly bustled through the thinning crowd, face aglow. "Jon! That was remarkable. You fought with such grace. I could hardly believe my eyes. Are you hurt?"

Jon wiped sweat from his brow, feeling the sting of the cut on his forearm. "A few scrapes, my lord. I'll live."

Manderly clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm proud to have sponsored you. Truly, you did me honor." Then he nodded at Oberyn. "And you, sir. Well fought indeed."

Oberyn inclined his head with a subtle smile. "I thank you for the praise, my lord." He cast Jon a lingering look before stepping away to speak with some men who might have recognized him, or perhaps to find a drink. Jon watched him go, curious about this mysterious warrior.

Captain Stone joined them, clearing his throat. "Jon Snow. A fine display. You'll do well on the Leviathan, I wager. Just remember—Valyria is no easy prize. You must keep that same skill on the sea. Understand?"

Jon nodded, determined. "I will."

Stone gave a curt nod, then turned to greet other victors. Manderly steered Jon aside, whispering, "You'll stay at my castle until the Leviathan departs, yes? You'll need time to heal, gather supplies. Let me provide them."

Jon's heart swelled with gratitude. "That's generous of you, my lord. I won't refuse."

Manderly beamed. "Come. We'll return to the castle. Tonight, we feast in your honor. Then you have a week to prepare. No telling what you'll face in Valyria, but at least you'll depart White Harbor with your belly full."

Jon nodded, letting the tension drain from him. He'd done it—he had won a place on the Leviathan. In a week's time, he would sail toward the legendary ruins. A wave of relief mingled with excitement. He cast one last glance at Oberyn across the field, who was downing a cup of ale with practiced ease. Their duel might not have ended in a clear victory, but in a way, they had both won. Fate had brought them together, and now they would share a voyage that promised both wonder and danger.

The Force hummed in Jon's mind, echoing an undercurrent of satisfaction. He had passed this trial. Many more lay ahead. But for now, he would seize the respite offered, storing strength for the journey into the unknown. Under the bright midday sun, White Harbor's bustle surrounded him, a swirl of applause and chatter as the wounded were carried away, the stands dismantled. Jon sheathed his sword, heart pounding with quiet triumph. He had found his path—at least the next step of it—and it shone with promise.