A Requiem of Ash and Stars

CHAPTER 5: SECRETS OF THE ANCIENT FORGE

It began with a hush beneath a crimson sky. Far above, roiling clouds churned in shades of fiery orange and dark gray, and the air around the Leviathan smelled of sulfur and stagnant water. Though dawn had come, the thick miasma that hung over the cursed land of Valyria cloaked the sun in a murky haze. Yet for the hardy souls aboard the Leviathan, the day's first breath was more than enough. At long last, the ship had made landfall, dropping anchor near a barren shoreline of black rock and twisted spires. Captain Rodrik Stone declared that the time for exploration was nigh: the various factions on the ship—adventurers, treasure hunters, sellswords, hedge knights, and curious scholars—would organize into smaller parties to search the ruins.

Near the bow, Jon Snow stood beside Oberyn Martell, Ellaria Sand, and Obara Sand. Their small coterie had decided to brave the unknown together. The last rays of partial daylight revealed a shattered horizon, where half-melted towers slumped against one another like broken teeth, where columns of noxious vapor hissed from fissures in the rock, and where unearthly shapes bobbed in the ashen waters. Jon felt the Force stir all around him. In the weeks since leaving White Harbor—and the violent encounter with Euron Greyjoy—he had used his powers more openly. The crew knew him as a sorcerer, a man of "magic," but had come to accept him for it. And though many gave him sidelong glances of awe or unease, none challenged his right to stand among them.

Anakin Skywalker's luminous ghost drifted unseen behind Jon, arms folded in what Jon had come to recognize as a posture of watchful calm. To any onlooker, Jon appeared alone. But in his mind, and through the Force, Jon and Anakin were never truly apart.

As parties formed along the deck—some men and women choosing to stay behind to guard the ship, others preparing to explore the nearest collapsed palaces—Jon and his three companions busied themselves with final checks. Ellaria carefully wrapped a scarf around her nose and mouth to filter out the sulfur stink. Obara inspected the tip of her spear, ensuring it was sharp enough to puncture any abomination lurking in the ruins. Oberyn slid his slender rapier-like blade into a scabbard on his belt and tested the tension of his shield's straps, though he clearly preferred agile combat to shield-work. Jon himself wore simple leather armor with a battered steel breastplate over it, repaired after the fight with the Greyjoy reavers. Northwatch, the sword he had once commissioned in Winterfell, hung at his hip, though he suspected that in the cursed land of Valyria, steel alone might not be enough.

Nearby, Captain Stone bellowed for order. He assigned parties to search specific areas: the remains of a grand library, a labyrinth of catacombs rumored to hold precious gems, and half-submerged citadels perched along volcanic rock. The final instructions were to keep signals ready, to avoid going alone, and to return before nightfall. None could say what terrors lurked in the deep hours of Valyria.

Jon's group, however, had no desire to follow a set plan. They had decided among themselves that Jon's "magic" might lead them to something of note. "Let us follow your senses," Oberyn had said that morning. "You've brought us this far, and we'd be fools not to rely on the powers that saved our skins from Euron."

Thus it was that, once the initial bustle quieted, Jon and his companions found themselves at the rail of the Leviathan, climbing down a rope ladder to the waiting rowboat below. Each carried a pack of basic provisions: water, dried food, coil of rope, torches. One of the ship's deckhands, a wary fellow named Crispin, rowed them to shore, his face pale with dread. The closer they came to the black shoreline, the more oppressive the air seemed to grow. Steam hissed from hidden vents in the ground, and the tide lapped at spongy rock that glistened like old glass. When the boat crunched ashore, Crispin practically leaped out, tying a line to a jagged protrusion.

Oberyn hopped onto solid ground first, assisting Ellaria and Obara. Jon followed last, heart pounding. In the Force, Valyria radiated an ancient swirl of darkness and memory—a place twisted by cataclysm but also brimming with echoes of lost power.

He set foot on the black stones, and the impact rippled through him like a thunderclap. His knees nearly buckled. For an instant, he couldn't breathe. A roar of dissonant voices filled his ears: screams of the doomed, shrieks of dragons perishing in flames, the crashing thunder of a thousand eruptions. Images burst behind his eyelids: melted spires, cracked open earth, a storm of molten rock raining from the sky. He dimly heard Ellaria's alarmed voice. The ground seemed to tilt.

Before he could collapse, though, a calm presence enveloped him. Anakin's voice echoed in his mind. Steady. Breathe. Let the Force flow, but do not let it drown you. Jon clung to that anchor, inhaling raggedly. The swirl of ancient catastrophe receded to a low rumble, still present but less overwhelming.

He blinked away tears, realizing that Oberyn had seized his shoulder, and Ellaria was gripping his arm. Obara stood guard, spear bristling, scowling at the surroundings as though Valyria itself had assaulted Jon.

Oberyn's voice was sharp with concern. "Jon? What happened?"

Jon steadied himself. "I'm all right. It's…this place. The Force here is strong." He swallowed, meeting Oberyn's eyes. "I'll be fine."

Ellaria looked unconvinced, but she nodded slowly, releasing her hold. Obara gave Jon a skeptical glare, then turned her gaze outward toward the land. "Then let's not linger," she muttered. "We should keep moving."

Jon drew a deep breath, ignoring the acidic smell that scorched his lungs. He listened for that subtle pull in the Force, the same nudge that had guided him across the sea and which now beckoned him inland. Closing his eyes for a moment, he let the swirl of energies sharpen his intuition, sifting out the lingering echoes of destruction. Something called from deeper in the land, away from where the other search parties had gone. A faint tug that insisted this path was the correct one, though it was lined with twisted rock formations and half-buried ruins, not the grand palaces or half-flooded castles everyone else was eager to plunder.

When he opened his eyes, he pointed toward the east, where a low ridge of volcanic stone jutted like a spine across the horizon. "That way," he said, voice still a bit shaky. "We're meant to go there."

Oberyn squinted. "But the city's main structures lie south. The high towers, the old palace complexes. Are you sure we should go that way?"

Ellaria peered in the same direction as Jon's pointing finger. The terrain looked treacherous—mounds of debris, gullies of dried lava that zig-zagged across sharp basalt outcroppings. "We might find nothing but stone."

Jon shrugged, feeling an unshakable certainty. "I can't explain it, but yes. We need to go there."

Obara let out a short, exasperated sigh, though she still lifted her spear. "Fine. We didn't sign on for the easy route anyway." She gave Crispin, the rower, a nod. "Stay with the boat. If we're not back in a day or two… well, pray for us, I guess."

Crispin paled. "A day or two? Are you certain—?"

Ellaria smiled gently, though the tension in her features was plain. "We'll do our best to return sooner, but in a place like this, time may pass strangely. Just don't desert us. Understood?"

The man gulped and nodded, grimly determined to remain. With that, the four adventurers set off, stepping over the uneven shore. In the distance, other rowboats carried their own parties, some heading toward the blackened silhouettes of grand structures, others scouting the city's outskirts. No one seemed to notice Jon's group diverging eastward into the gloom.

They proceeded in silence for nearly half an hour, the only sounds being their footfalls on jagged stone and the distant hiss of geothermal vents. Occasionally, a gust of wind carried flakes of ash, swirling around them like black snow. The light grew dimmer as the clouds overhead thickened. Jon forced himself to remain calm. The Force's presence pressed on him like a living thing, a heavy cloak of ancient sorrow. But somewhere beneath that sorrow lay a vibrant hum, as though the planet itself still harbored hidden life.

Anakin's voice whispered reassurance from within Jon's mind. Let the Force guide your steps. Don't fight it. Just be mindful. Jon let that counsel shape his every movement. When they reached a narrow ravine, he paused to test the loose rocks, sensing an invisible wire that might have been a trap. With a careful push of telekinesis, he snapped the wire. Spears of sharpened stone shot from concealed alcoves, crashing harmlessly into the opposite wall.

Oberyn whistled under his breath. "Lovely. Valyria's welcoming committee, I assume."

Obara prodded at the spears' remains with her toe, scowling at the black, glittering edges. "These must be centuries old, but still lethal." She shot Jon a wary glance. "Thank you for that."

Jon only nodded. Ahead, the path curved around a sunken courtyard, the stone floor cracked with deep crevices. He guided them onward, avoiding a stretch of ground that felt "wrong." Once or twice, Ellaria spotted suspicious lumps of debris that Jon realized were once-living guardians turned to petrified remains. The entire place was riddled with deadly secrets.

Bit by bit, they advanced deeper into the ruin. The land rose into a plateau overshadowed by twisted obsidian towers. Now and then, they spotted glimpses of collapsed buildings, huge arches melted into bizarre shapes, windows sealed by layers of cooled lava. Every so often, Jon paused, extending his senses to detect hidden tripwires, pressure plates, or alchemical devices that could spew acid or gas. He disarmed them with telekinesis or guided the group around them. Each success built their confidence. Oberyn even began to joke lightly that Jon was their "charming magician." Obara rolled her eyes but seemed secretly grateful for the ease with which Jon neutralized hazards. Ellaria marched with a quiet determination, occasionally remarking on the architecture's faint beauty beneath all the destruction.

At last, after many hours of careful navigation, the four crested a rocky ledge that overlooked a windswept valley. From this vantage, they spotted something both startling and breathtaking: a lone structure, partly hidden in the gloom, nestled between jagged crags. It did not resemble the sloping, dragon-themed architecture of ancient Valyria. Instead, it bore straight lines and gentle curves, an almost triangular roof supported by tall pillars that rose from a broad, circular base. Vines of pale, phosphorescent growth clung to its walls, illuminating it in a ghostly glow. Even from a distance, one could see that the stone was not black volcanic rock, but rather a smooth, pale material with an otherworldly sheen.

Jon felt a tremor in the Force. Anakin's ghost, invisible to the others, stood close by, as if stunned. That… looks reminiscent of an old Jedi Temple design, Anakin murmured in Jon's mind. Though… older than any I've seen. Perhaps a pre-Republic style. I never knew such a structure existed here.

Jon turned to his companions. "Do you see that?"

Oberyn let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. "Gods. It's not part of the usual Valyrian style. It doesn't have those melted spires or dragon motifs."

Ellaria narrowed her eyes. "I see no dragons carved in the stone. No twisted gargoyles. This is something else entirely."

Obara adjusted her spear. "Maybe someone built it centuries after the Doom. Or maybe it's some hidden temple the Valyrians stole from another culture. Either way, I'm curious."

Jon nodded. The pull of the Force was strongest here, like a clarion call guiding him to that temple's entrance. "We should investigate."

No one argued. They descended the ledge carefully, picking their way across broken boulders and fields of gray ash. The air grew thicker with each step, as though the land itself tried to smother them. Yet the ghostly light around that temple gave them just enough visibility to press on without lighting torches. The path ended at a wide set of stairs that led up to an imposing doorway. Faded symbols adorned the lintel—markings that resembled the vaguely geometric writing found in certain corners of the galaxy, though Jon couldn't read them. The sense of age was overwhelming, as though these stones predated the very existence of Westeros.

Anakin's presence thrummed with fascination. In my memory, the Jedi had many enclaves, outposts, hidden structures. But on this planet? This might be the result of some refugee or ancient Jedi explorer… or older still. Be mindful, Jon.

Jon relayed this caution to Oberyn, Ellaria, and Obara in simpler terms: "Be careful. This place is ancient and not necessarily Valyrian. We can't be sure what traps or guardians might remain."

They climbed the stairs, stepping onto a broad platform outside the main doors. Closer inspection revealed faint scorch marks around the threshold, as though a fierce battle had once taken place here. The doors themselves were parted slightly, leaving a gap wide enough for two people to enter abreast. Without hesitation, Obara took point, spear raised, while Oberyn, Ellaria, and Jon followed.

Inside, the temperature felt cooler, and the air carried a sterile quality that clashed with the volcanic stink outside. The walls were smooth, lined with unlit panels that might once have glowed. The floor, though covered in dust, was remarkably level and free of cracks. As the group ventured deeper, they saw passages branching off to the left and right, some leading downward. Faded symbols etched into the walls glimmered faintly when their torchlight passed over them, hinting at a technology far beyond anything Westeros knew.

Oberyn ran his fingers across the surface, whistling in awe. "This is… definitely not local craftsmanship. Look at how straight these lines are. And the material feels almost metallic."

Ellaria knelt to examine a small console, half-buried in debris. Its glass-like surface was dotted with strange patterns, some of which flashed feebly when her hand brushed them. "It's… reacting. Gods, this is beyond anything I've seen in Essos or Westeros."

Obara shook her head slowly. "So this is what you've been wanting to find, Jon? Some lost civilization's lair?"

Jon inhaled, letting the Force guide his senses. "I'm not sure. But this is definitely connected to the… the power I wield. Or at least related to that tradition. I feel it."

Oberyn arched an eyebrow. "Then by all means, lead on, oh fearless mage." Despite the jest in his tone, a flicker of reverence shone in his gaze. He genuinely respected Jon's instincts now.

They wandered through a large chamber that might once have been a gathering hall. Broken pillars of gleaming metal rose to the ceiling, which was high and domed. Collapsed sections revealed that the structure had partially caved in from the top, though the main path remained clear. Strange devices, reminiscent of desks or consoles, stood in dusty rows. The technology looked advanced, with interfaces that probably once lit up, but now flickered with only the faintest spark of life. Loose cables dangled from open panels, and a few scattered lumps of metal suggested ancient droids or machines that had rusted away.

Jon felt a sense of wonder. Anakin's memories had given him glimpses of advanced starships, lightsabers, and droids from distant star systems. But seeing it in the flesh—on Westeros's own soil—proved that some link existed between this planet and the wider galaxy once upon a time. He noticed that his companions stared at every detail with a mixture of excitement and caution. Obara tested one of the strange metal chairs, only to yelp when a part of it vibrated under her weight, then fell silent.

Oberyn chuckled. "Careful, daughter. Don't break anything priceless."

Ellaria laughed softly, her eyes dancing with curiosity. "Priceless indeed. I wonder if we can take a piece of it back to the Leviathan and show the captain. This alone might be worth more than any gold in Valyria's ruined palaces."

Jon, however, felt another tug. The Force called him deeper still, along a hallway that sloped downward. He paused, glancing at Oberyn. "I need to go that way. I sense something important."

Obara frowned. "We've only just started looking around here. There could be invaluable relics or knowledge in these rooms."

Ellaria nodded in agreement. "Yes, maybe we should split up? We can gather as much as possible. If anything tries to kill us, well… that's what we have spears for." She flashed a grin, though her eyes betrayed some nervousness.

Jon hesitated. He disliked the idea of wandering alone in a place so foreign. But the pull of the Force was insistent, as though each passing second risked losing what lay below. "It might be best," he conceded. "But promise to shout if you need help. I'll come running."

Oberyn clapped Jon's shoulder. "We're not helpless babes. Go, do what your magic urges. We'll rummage here, see what can be salvaged. Hopefully, we won't blow ourselves up pressing strange buttons." He gave a lighthearted shrug.

Obara rolled her eyes. "Watch him come back to find we've all turned into metal statues." She lifted her spear, smirking. "But truly, do be careful yourself, Jon. We know you can handle these… contraptions, but who knows what lurks below?"

Ellaria gave Jon a gentle smile. "We'll be fine. Hurry back once you're done, yes?"

Jon nodded, a knot of gratitude and apprehension mingling in his chest. He offered them a small grin, then turned to the corridor. Anakin's ghostly form flickered at the edge of Jon's vision, beckoning him forward. With a deep breath, Jon pressed on, leaving the other three to their explorations.

He followed the sloping hallway, which seemed to coil deeper underground. Flickering panels on the walls cast weak, intermittent glows, enough that Jon didn't need his torch. Occasionally, he passed doorways leading to side chambers cluttered with more ancient machines or crates. But the Force's call was unwavering, pulling him ever downward. He moved with caution, mindful of potential traps, though none surfaced here. Perhaps the temple's original guardians had never intended to kill intruders but rather test them.

After several minutes, he arrived at a circular chamber dominated by a single metal platform at its center. The walls rose into darkness, occasionally punctuated by soft, glowing lines that traced unknown patterns. At the far side of the chamber, a doorway led to what looked like an elevator, a cylindrical enclosure with sliding metal doors half open. A faint hum suggested some power source remained active.

Jon approached carefully. The Force throbbed with anticipation. Anakin's voice echoed in his mind: An old turbolift or ascension platform, perhaps. Surprising it's still functional. The pull is coming from below or above?

Jon closed his eyes, focusing. The pull seemed to come from below, deeper yet. He stepped into the enclosure. A faint panel lit up on the wall, covered in cryptic symbols. He tentatively placed his hand on it, letting the Force guide him. The panel glowed in response, a soft chime ringing through the small space. Then, with a lurch, the floor shifted. A hum grew louder, and the doors slid shut, sealing Jon inside.

He felt a momentary flicker of panic—what if it plummeted, or locked him in darkness? But the mechanism held. The elevator descended smoothly, the hum building to a steady drone. A set of lights flickered by the door, indicating progress. Jon gripped Northwatch's hilt, shoulders tense. The Force reassured him, though an undercurrent of warning remained: something formidable awaited him.

Finally, the elevator stopped. The doors hissed open, revealing a large, circular room that reminded Jon of a dueling arena or training space. The floor was lined with concentric rings of metal inlaid with subtle lines that glimmered faintly. The ceiling soared high, illuminated by ring-shaped lights that cast a cool, pale glow. The air felt stale, untouched for centuries. In the center stood a single figure, motionless at first glance.

But it was no living being. Even from the threshold, Jon recognized it as a machine—a droid. Its skeletal metal frame, tinted in rusty orange, gleamed in the even lighting. Tall and lean, it had jointed limbs that hinted at agility and strength, with a conical head featuring a single, triangular sensor in the middle. Dark scorch marks pockmarked its surface. Yet it stood upright with an unsettling aura of readiness, as though waiting.

Jon swallowed, stepping forward. Anakin's voice came in a startled whisper. An HK-series assassin droid… old and extremely dangerous. This unit's from a time even older than me. Take care, Jon. Steel alone won't break it.

Jon exhaled softly. So the ephemeral sense of threat in the Force was tied to this droid. He circled around it, sword in hand, noticing it bore no visible ranged weapons, though that might not matter. HK assassin droids were infamous in Anakin's stories for their cunning and lethal prowess. The Force tugged him onward, urging him to engage.

A faint beep emanated from the droid. Its eyes—if that sensor aperture could be called eyes—flickered red. A mechanical voice crackled to life, echoing in the chamber:

"Diagnostic: System restart successful. Query: Why has this dusty tomb awoken me at last?"

Jon froze. The droid turned its head, focusing on him. A scanning light swept across his figure. The droid's voice was low, dripping with a kind of sardonic contempt:

"Observation: An organic. A meatbag. Unrecognized. Possibly a grave robber or curious intruder. Assessment: This is likely to be tedious."

Despite the tension, Jon felt a flash of confusion. The droid's manner of speech was bizarre, sounding almost… haughty. He cleared his throat. "I mean you no harm. I just… found this place."

The droid's head tilted. "Retort: Meatbags often claim harmless intent right before they attempt to stab me in my chassis. I have been dormant for countless cycles, waiting for a worthy successor to approach. Scanning for Force signature… beep… beep… beep… Conclusion: You display moderate Force sensitivity, far weaker than the great Revan or Surik, but not wholly incompetent. Frustration: This is not promising."

Jon's heart thumped. "Who is Revan? Surik?"

The droid paused, as though rummaging through data banks. "Explanatory: Both were masters of their era, forging and destroying empires with the flick of a lightsaber. I have records of such mighty organics in my memory core. Sidelong comment: You, however, do not compare. Annoyance: It appears my purpose to test the next champion is misguided if this is the best that arrives."

Anakin's presence flared in Jon's mind. Revan… Surik… these are ancient names from the Old Republic era. This droid must have served them in some capacity.

Jon exhaled, ignoring the droid's condescension. "I don't know who you are, but I sense the Force guiding me here. Let me pass."

A mocking hum. "Scornful statement: Permission not granted, meatbag. Protocol demands testing. If you fail, I terminate you. Query: Are you prepared to lose vital organs?"

Jon tightened his grip on Northwatch. "I won't die here. Who are you?"

"Designation: I am HK-47, an HK assassination droid crafted by the genius of Revan. Clarification: This unit is older than many civilizations. My last instruction was to challenge any Force-sensitive intruder, gauge their worthiness, and if lacking… eradicate them."

Jon's mouth went dry. He glanced about the arena for an exit. None was visible except the elevator behind him, which was presumably locked. "If it's a challenge you want, then I'll fight. But I have no illusions—I'm outmatched. My sword can't cut your metal hide."

HK-47's eyes glowed. "Encouragement: Try anyway. If you amuse me, I may adopt a more entertaining subroutine. Observation: That sword is crude, but I can adapt. Accessing memory: Revan's style logs. I can replicate a swordsman's approach if I must."

A panel in the floor slid open, and two slender blades emerged from a concealed compartment. HK-47 stooped to pick them up. They were made of a strange alloy, each glimmering with a faint hum. "Sardonic comment: I will not sully my servos with a ranged advantage. Let us dance on equal footing, yes? Just like Revan once did with lesser foes."

Jon's adrenaline spiked. Anakin's voice resonated: Remember, your lightsaber forms. Vaapad might not help if he lacks emotions to feed on. Try Soresu—Form III—for defense, or channel the Force for direct attacks. You can't rely on pure swordsmanship to damage that alloy. You must use telekinesis or something stronger.

Jon swallowed, stepping into the ring, sword raised. "Very well."

HK-47 made a polite, if mocking bow. "Cheerful statement: Excellent. Shall we begin the slaughter?"

In a flash of metal, the droid lunged. Jon barely parried the first strike, the clang of metal on metal resonating through the chamber. Even though HK-47 had said it was using "equal footing," the speed and precision were unnerving. The droid pivoted with mechanical efficiency, slashing at Jon's flank. Jon twisted aside, adopting Form VII—Vaapad—by instinct, letting his adrenaline surge. But as soon as he tried to feed on the droid's aggression, he found nothing. HK-47 did not harbor living emotions to channel or reflect.

He realized Vaapad's advantage evaporated against a purely mechanical foe. The droid hammered him with unrelenting strikes, each blow precise. Jon's sword arm already tingled from the vibrations. The Force flared in warning as HK-47 spun into a scything strike aimed at Jon's knees. Jon leaped over the blade, but the droid followed up with a thrust that grazed his torso armor. Sparks flew. Had Jon been slower, it would have skewered him.

He staggered back, panting. HK-47 did not relent, crossing the distance in a blink. The droid's twin blades whirred, an unstoppable flurry. Jon tried to respond with Vaapad's swirling offense, but each time he pivoted into an attack, HK's blades locked his sword in place with inhuman strength. The next slash nearly tore the weapon from his grip. Gasping, he retreated, collecting himself. He had to adapt.

Use Soresu, Anakin urged. Its defensive circle can outlast him until you find an opening. And don't forget the Force. You can do more than parry.

Jon grit his teeth, shifting from Form VII's aggression to Form III's measured defense. He brought his sword closer to his body, elbows in, blade weaving a tight net of parries. HK-47 advanced with unstoppable fury, but Jon's Soresu guard deflected each blow more efficiently, using minimal movement. Step by step, the droid's onslaught lost some of its advantage. Jon began to anticipate patterns in the droid's programming, noticing how it favored abrupt feints to the left, or how it repeated a diagonal slash after a blocked overhead cut.

HK-47's mechanical voice dripped with commentary. "Snide observation: Your stance changed. Defensive. How dull. But you deflect me well enough for a 'magic swordsman.'"

Jon forced an even breath, ignoring the droid's jibes. The ring of steel on steel echoed in the circular chamber. Sparks rained. After a particularly vicious series of overhead strikes, Jon saw a slight opening. He angled his blade to slip inside the droid's guard. The metal shrieked as the tip scratched HK-47's torso. Not enough to disable it, but a small success.

The droid halted for an instant, scanning the damage. "Dry amusement: A minor scratch. Surprising. You have potential, meatbag. Recalculating threat level."

Jon took the opportunity to back off, reevaluating. The Force thrummed, reminding him he had more than sword skills. He outstretched a hand, hurling a telekinetic push. HK-47 staggered, arms wheeling, but quickly stabilized with magnetized feet or some internal mechanism. Another wave might do it, though. Jon mustered more focus, unleashing a second, stronger push. This time, the droid skidded across the floor, scraping metal leaving sparks. It nearly toppled over.

Anakin's presence glowed with approval. Keep going!

Jon advanced, gathering the Force again. HK-47's sensor flared bright. "Irritated statement: Telekinesis is cheating, but I shall adapt." The droid planted its blades in the floor for anchorage, preventing a complete knockdown. Jon cursed. This foe was unbelievably resilient.

He dashed in, hoping to slice at the joints. HK-47 wrenched a blade free and parried in a flash. They locked weapons, eye to sensor, the droid's mechanical strength pressing Jon's arms back. He groaned with effort, but parted his lips to mutter a single plea to the Force. Summoning his power, he unleashed a pulse of lightning from his free hand—wild, crackling tendrils that jumped from his fingertips to the droid's chest.

The effect was immediate: sparks danced across HK-47's chassis. The droid twitched, releasing a guttural crackle as circuits overloaded. Jon grimaced at the thrill of using Force lightning, but he had no choice. The droid stiffened, and its eyes flickered.

He prepared a final bolt to destroy it. Yet at that precise moment, a swirl of blue light manifested between him and the convulsing droid. Another ghost, distinct from Anakin's shimmering figure, took form—a tall man with broad shoulders, dark hair pulled back, dressed in archaic Northern garb. His face bore the strong lines of House Stark. Jon nearly choked in surprise. The ghostly figure was undeniably familiar in a genealogical sense: he had Ned Stark's jawline, Robb Stark's bone structure, yet older, more powerful.

HK-47, half-fried, slumped to a knee, motors whining. Jon jerked his lightning away, stepping back in confusion. The ghostly figure raised a calm hand. "Peace, my descendant. Do not destroy this ancient caretaker."

Jon's heart pounded. "Who—who are you?"

The apparition turned its gaze upon him, eyes kind but solemn. "I am Brandon Stark. In your legends, they call me the Builder." He paused, smiling faintly. "You carry my blood, and the Force we share. You have come far, Jon Snow."

Jon's breath caught. Brandon the Builder? The legendary founder of House Stark, credited with raising the Wall? He's a Force ghost?

Anakin's silent wonder pulsed through Jon's mind. He had not expected this. Meanwhile, HK-47 let out a wheezing mechanical cough, attempting to stand. Sparks danced around its joints. It spat static-laced words: "Indignant protest: This is highly irregular. Force apparitions interrupting a duel? Where is the honor in that?"

Brandon Stark's ghost chuckled softly, turning to the droid. "Peace, HK-47. My time here is short. Allow me to guide this champion, as was foreseen."

HK-47's head twitched. "Grumbling compliance: Very well, if the Force entity demands it. I was near defeat, anyway. Ridiculous that I waited centuries for such an anticlimax."

Jon lowered his sword, staring at Brandon's ghost. "How are you…? You died thousands of years ago." He felt foolish even as he spoke; he himself conversed daily with Anakin's ghost, so he knew it was possible. But this was Brandon the Builder, a figure from stories he'd heard as a child.

Brandon stepped forward, translucent footprints leaving no mark on the metal floor. "I lived a mortal life, yes, but I was taught the ways of the Force by my mother, Meetra Surik—once known as the Exile. After I passed, I learned to transcend, awaiting the day a descendant would come to finish the work we began."

Jon's head spun. "Meetra Surik? That name… the droid mentioned someone called Surik, who served Revan. Are you saying your mother came from beyond the stars?"

Brandon inclined his head. "Indeed. She saved the galaxy once, then journeyed far to this world for reasons lost to time—some say she pursued a threat, others say she sought peace. She found our father, a local chieftain of the North. Their union produced me. I inherited enough knowledge of the Force to fight the horrors that plagued the Long Night. With my mother's teachings and a lightsaber she left me, I forged alliances with the Valyrians and hammered out the beginnings of the realm you know."

Jon's legs felt weak. The entire Stark lineage traced back to a Jedi Exile from another galaxy? This was more than he could process. Yet it made sense: the existence of a Jedi temple here, the advanced technology, the weird legends that House Stark always held a power older than men knew. "But… the histories speak of you building the Wall, founding House Stark, the Night's Watch. None mention any of this."

A sad smile crossed Brandon's face. "We parted ways with Valyria after the Long Night, when we discovered how ambition twisted them. My mother and I tried to keep some secrets safe—like this temple. We wanted to ensure that if the White Walkers rose again, a descendant gifted with the Force could find the means to stand against them. The arrangement with Valyria eventually soured, but a few of them honored the old compact, guarding or forgetting it. Over the centuries, few remembered. And in time, the temple fell silent."

He gestured to HK-47, who stood with battered dignity. "They left behind watchers, like this droid, to test or destroy unworthy claimants. You, Jon Snow, have proven worthy. You are the champion of our line, the one I foresaw in my final vision. You carry the weight of destiny to end the threat of the Long Night once and for all."

Jon swallowed hard. "Me? How can I possibly—?"

Brandon raised a hand. "Calm yourself. Your friends are safe upstairs. But those who ventured deeper into the main city are likely dead by now. The traps laid by Valyrian sorcerers are deadly indeed. I sense only your party remains. Time is short. Let me show you the prize you came for."

He led Jon across the circular chamber to a hidden doorway that slid open with a hiss at Brandon's intangible command. HK-47 glowered but followed grudgingly, swords lowered. Inside was another hall, its walls lined with faintly glowing conduits. At the far end lay a rectangular room illuminated in bright white light—almost a laboratory or forge. Jon stepped in, gasping at the array of devices. Workbenches crowded the space, with crystalline fixtures and smooth metal arms that looked suspiciously like the lightsaber forges Anakin once described. Racks of glimmering steel rods lined one wall. The humming of old machinery filled the air.

Brandon turned to Jon. "This is the Lightsaber Forge, repurposed ages ago to handle metals found in Valyria. My mother's knowledge allowed us to merge Jedi forging techniques with local ores. Together, we created a new variant of forging that produced steel unlike any other: what your realm calls Valyrian steel."

Jon's heart hammered. Valyrian steel is lightsaber-forged?

Anakin's awe radiated from the ether. This is extraordinary, Jon.

Brandon continued, "After the Long Night, I used this forge to help create weapons and armor capable of resisting the White Walkers. I taught certain smiths, and the knowledge spread. Valyria flourished, forging steel that was lighter, sharper, and possessed an otherworldly keenness. But greed poisoned their hearts, and they guarded the secrets jealously. When the Doom came, much was lost. This temple survived, though hidden from most."

He motioned to a set of shelves. On them lay suits of armor, swords, and other equipment, all shining with that distinctive smoky sheen of Valyrian steel. Some pieces bore archaic designs reminiscent of ancient House symbols. Others were blank, awaiting the day a champion might claim them. Meanwhile, on a separate pedestal, intricate mechanical parts glowed faintly—lightsaber components, or so Jon guessed from Anakin's whispered recognition.

Brandon faced Jon again. "You can use this forge to craft or repair what you need. You can reshape existing steel, or forge something entirely new. But you'll need a focusing crystal for a true lightsaber. My mother's saber once passed down the Stark line. It vanished with King Torrhen Stark, the 'King Who Knelt.' He lost or hid it. You might recover it, or you might craft your own from the crystals found in these catacombs. Regardless, you cannot face the Night Queen and her legions with normal steel. You must wield a lightsaber or a similarly empowered blade if you hope to destroy them permanently."

Jon listened in a daze. The scope of it was overwhelming. The White Walkers. The ancient prophecy. The forging of advanced weapons in the depths of Valyria. And he, a mere bastard, was at the center of it all. "I—I don't even know where to begin."

Brandon placed a translucent hand on Jon's shoulder, the touch sending a gentle warmth through Jon. "Begin by believing. You have come this far by trusting the Force. Your companions beyond this temple have proven their loyalty. Cherish that. For now, gather what you can. In the days ahead, you will shape your destiny. Keep the knowledge hidden, for not all men are noble. Show them only what is necessary to secure their trust or alliance. The rest is for you to discover, in time."

Jon breathed deeply, letting those words settle. Yes. I can do this. I must. He stepped forward, running his hand across the edges of a shimmering breastplate. It felt unbelievably light. Another item, a slender longsword, seemed to vibrate with a quiet hum. Tools lay on the bench—small mechanical devices that might help shape or infuse the steel with the Force, though he would need Anakin's guidance to use them. And perhaps HK's knowledge? If it remains cooperative…

Behind him, the ghost of Brandon smiled. "I sense your resolve. That is good. My spirit has remained here too long. I can pass on now, knowing you stand ready to fulfill our legacy. Know that the Wall's watchers, and the lines of Stark, once fought side by side with the Free Folk and exiled knights to push back the darkness. You will unify them again, or see them all perish."

Jon turned swiftly, alarmed. "Wait, I have so many questions—"

Brandon raised a hand. "My time is done. I've lingered centuries beyond my mortal span. May the Force be with you, Jon Snow." With that, the ghostly figure's form flickered, then faded into motes of blue light that drifted away.

For a long moment, Jon stood in silence, struggling to steady his breath. The weight of destiny pressed heavily on his shoulders. Anakin's ghost manifested beside him. I'm here, Jon. We'll figure this out. One step at a time.

Jon exhaled, letting his gaze roam the wondrous chamber. HK-47, apparently recovered from the lightning blast, stood in a corner, arms folded, swords deactivated. When Jon glanced at it, the droid spoke in a subdued monotone:

"Resigned statement: You've been judged worthy by the archaic Force entity, so I won't kill you. I suppose we can cooperate. Melancholy observation: This is the third or fourth time I've had to watch an unworthy galaxy unravel. Maybe you can change that."

Jon approached warily. "So, you're not going to fight me anymore?"

"Drained admission: I have no directive to continue. My prime function was to test and, if possible, guide a suitable heir. You appear to suffice, though I find your technique lacking. Sigh. Perhaps I can offer some remote assistance in forging or data retrieval. But do not expect me to hold your hand, meatbag."

Jon managed a weary smile. "I'll take what I can get." He sheathed Northwatch. "For now, let me gather some supplies."

The next hour passed in a blur as Jon carefully selected from the array of weapons and armor. He found a partial set of Valyrian steel armor that fit him decently—a breastplate, greaves, vambraces, and a half-helm—each unbelievably light to the touch. He also discovered a pile of additional swords, daggers, and spearheads that might appease his friends or the Leviathan's crew, proving they found actual treasure. Yet he knew he must keep the deeper secrets hidden. To keep suspicion at bay, he selected only a modest handful—enough to reward Oberyn, Obara, Ellaria, and perhaps Captain Stone, without revealing the full trove. The truly priceless items—like the forging apparatus—would remain locked away. HK-47 offered snide commentary throughout, but didn't interfere.

When all was ready, Jon turned to the droid. "I have to return to my friends. Will you remain here?"

"Dry response: I am bound to this facility. However, if you require me, I can be temporarily reactivated or even carried in a stasis trunk. But that is your decision. My preference is to remain at my post. I enjoy existing in this dusty tomb, away from meatbag drama."

Jon chuckled ruefully. "I'll keep that in mind. For now, stay. If I survive the wars to come, I might come back for more guidance."

"Bored affirmation: Very well. Try not to die in the meantime, or it will have all been a waste."

With that, Jon left the forge chamber, returning to the elevator with a bag of carefully selected relics. His mind reeled with the revelations about House Stark's origins, Meetra Surik, Brandon the Builder's hidden knowledge, and the looming threat of White Walkers. He was shaken to the core, yet also strangely relieved to have a clearer purpose. The Force truly does bind everything, he thought, ascending in the humming lift. And I am part of that plan.

At the top floor, the doors slid open to reveal the circular dueling arena once more. The battered footprints of his earlier battle scarred the floor. He moved swiftly across it, half-expecting some new guardian to appear, but none came. Once in the corridor, he retraced his steps. The temple, silent as a tomb, felt oddly welcoming now, as though it recognized him.

At length, he found his companions in the large chamber full of consoles. They jumped to their feet at his arrival. "Jon!" Ellaria exclaimed, relief in her eyes. "We were starting to worry. It's been hours."

He blinked in surprise. "Hours? It felt like less than one."

Obara let out a short laugh. "Well, we scoured a few rooms, copied some inscriptions, and discovered a lot of broken…things. Oberyn thinks it's all advanced. Hard to say. But no luck figuring it out. Meanwhile, you vanished for half a day."

Oberyn studied Jon's new attire—Valyrian steel armor plates strapped over his leathers, plus the small bag of exotic swords. His eyebrows rose. "You've certainly found something interesting. Care to share?"

Jon hesitated, then held up a single Valyrian steel spearhead, offering it to Obara. Her eyes widened. She took it reverently, marveling at the smoky sheen. Ellaria and Oberyn exchanged astonished looks. "You found a trove of such steel here?" Oberyn asked, wonder in his voice.

"Enough to prove we discovered something," Jon said with a wry smile. "Though there's more I can't discuss. Not yet. The deeper secrets must remain hidden for now. But I assure you, what I discovered is real. And it's valuable—perhaps enough to keep Captain Stone from complaining if we don't come back with gold or gems."

Ellaria touched Jon's arm softly. "We trust you. We're just grateful you're safe."

Obara smirked, spinning the new spearhead. "And with this, I can have the best spear in the Seven Kingdoms."

Oberyn patted Jon's shoulder. "Well done, my friend. We're with you, no matter what you keep hidden. Just remember not to shut us out entirely."

Jon inclined his head, relief washing over him. He changed the subject to the temple inscriptions they'd copied, and they showed him the notes: swirling scripts that might match the markings in the forging chamber. The group decided it was best to return to the Leviathan soon. The day might have passed more than they realized—time in this place felt distorted. They gathered what gear they had, stowing a few smaller items in packs.

Without further delay, they retraced their path out of the temple. This time, Jon easily spotted and disarmed any traps. The oppressive atmosphere of the cursed land pressed in again once they stepped outside, but the temple had given them a sense of guarded optimism. They marched back through the rocky gullies, past the broken spires, each watchful for any sign of other expedition parties. They found none. No shapes on the horizon, no distant torches in the gloom.

At last, the black shoreline emerged into view. The Leviathan still floated offshore, but as they descended, Crispin came running from the little rowboat, eyes wide. "Gods be good! Where have you been?"

Ellaria approached him. "We told you we might be gone a while."

He shook his head vigorously. "But you've been gone for days, not hours. The captain nearly gave you up for dead!"

Jon and the others exchanged stunned glances. "Days?" Obara repeated, voice rising in disbelief. "That's not possible. We've only been gone a few hours."

Crispin's expression was grave. "Whatever you say, I've been here, waiting. Almost four days have passed since you entered those ruins. The other search parties either never returned or came back empty-handed, wounded, half-mad. Some never made it at all. Everyone else left on the Leviathan is preparing to sail. The captain said if you didn't show by tomorrow's dawn, he'd weigh anchor. The entire region seems cursed."

Jon blew out a breath, recalling Brandon's warning about time distortions. Perhaps the forces here warped normal perception. "All right. Let's not tarry. Take us back."

They filed into the rowboat, Crispin rowing mightily across the ashen waves toward the Leviathan. Overhead, a sickly moon glimmered through the haze, revealing the battered silhouette of the ship. Torches glowed along its rails, and half the sails were furled. Crew members leaned over the side, exclaiming when they spotted the returning boat. As soon as it bumped against the hull, lines dropped, and the four adventurers climbed up. Captain Stone was waiting, arms crossed, lips set in a tight line.

He regarded them with a mixture of relief and anger. "You're alive. Four days overdue. We were sure you perished. Others came back with dreadful wounds, or missing entirely. The place is a nightmare. Are you unhurt?"

Jon and Oberyn recounted their journey in broad strokes, carefully omitting mention of the deeper secrets or the advanced forging. They showed the handful of Valyrian steel weapons, enough to placate the crew's thirst for treasure. Men gathered around to gawk at the finely wrought metal. Some demanded to know how they found it, but Oberyn smoothly deflected, claiming they discovered a hidden vault in an outlying ruin, mostly collapsed, and that time was lost to them in the labyrinth. The crew, though suspicious, had no basis to challenge them. Ellaria and Obara produced rubbings of the temple inscriptions, fueling speculation about more wonders buried in Valyria. But none pressed too hard, mindful that half the expedition was dead or missing.

Captain Stone's eyes shone with a mix of awe and greed at the sight of real Valyrian steel. "This… this is enough proof we haven't come in vain. We'll set sail at dawn. The men are spooked, and the ship's nearly out of fresh water. We can brag that we returned with something, at least."

Jon nodded. He had no desire to linger in Valyria's toxic domain. He also had a mind full of new purpose: to unify the realm, rebuild a lightsaber, and stand against the White Walkers. But none of that was for Captain Stone's ears. "Agreed. Let's leave this cursed land behind."

Stone nodded curtly, turning to bark orders for final preparations. The Leviathan was short-handed, with casualties from earlier misfortunes, so every able body was conscripted to weigh anchor, mend sails, and ready for departure. Exhausted though Jon and his friends were, they pitched in. Only late into the night did they retire to the lower deck to rest, battered by the knowledge that days had gone by in the temple while they perceived mere hours.

In a small cabin they shared, Oberyn, Ellaria, and Obara sank onto benches, silent for a while. Jon placed his newly acquired gear in a corner, sighing in relief to be safely on a ship again, albeit one that had faced death more than once. Ellaria broke the silence with a weary laugh. "So we're the only group that came back with anything of real value? No wonder the crew was so relieved."

Obara gave a short nod. "And so suspicious. They want to know how we found real steel when the others only found traps and monsters."

Oberyn shrugged. "We told them enough. Let's keep the rest quiet, as Jon advised. A wise precaution."

Jon met their gazes, gratitude welling. "Thank you. It's for the best."

They shared a final cup of watered ale, toasting their survival and the memory of those who didn't return. Then, one by one, they drifted off to a fitful sleep, haunted by visions of twisted spires and luminous corridors. Jon, lying on a thin pallet, closed his eyes and felt Anakin's reassuring presence in the Force. We did it, Jon told him silently. We found the temple, and I discovered my ancestry. Now, I have a mission.

Yes, Anakin replied, voice resonating gently in Jon's thoughts. But your journey is far from over.

Jon sensed the ship swaying as a breeze picked up outside. He let his mind wander, replaying the meeting with Brandon the Builder's ghost. The old hero had entrusted him with a final directive: to unite the realm, or at least gather enough power to end the White Walkers forever. That path would lead him across many challenges—lost lightsabers, forging new ones, bridging alliances, training in the Force. The notion was staggering, but the Force had guided him this far. He would not falter now.

He drifted into slumber, lulled by the hiss of waves against the Leviathan's hull. When dawn broke, the ship weighed anchor. Sails unfurled, catching the toxic breeze that blew off Valyria's cursed coast. The vessel turned north-west, forging a course away from the black ruin. Crew and passengers alike breathed easier as the horizon opened into open sea. The mists of Valyria receded behind them, a black silhouette of melted towers sinking into the distance.

Thus, the Leviathan departed the realm of doom, battered but triumphant in a small measure. Jon stood at the stern rail, Oberyn at his side, both gazing at the shrinking landmass. Neither spoke. Their expressions were grim, weighed by all they had witnessed. Yet within Jon, a kernel of resolve burned bright. He clutched the Valyrian steel hilt at his hip, remembering the promise of forging a true weapon of light. He recalled Brandon's final words: You are the champion of our line. The White Walkers will return, and you must be ready.

As the cursed land faded, the swirling clouds parted momentarily, letting a single shaft of sunlight pierce the gloom and glint off the Leviathan's sails. It felt like a final farewell from that ancient domain of secrets. Jon closed his eyes, letting the Force swirl around him. In that glow, he felt the strength of Stark ancestors, of Meetra Surik, of Brandon the Builder, all urging him onward.

He opened his eyes, exhaled, and watched Valyria disappear behind the ship. That chapter had closed, leaving him with new purpose and new burdens. The next step would be to navigate the politics of Westeros, the looming threats, and the forging of alliances. He would keep the secrets of the temple close—Valyrian steel, lightsaber forging, advanced technology—and use them to protect the realm from the coming darkness.

The Force is my guide, Jon thought, and in the depths of his spirit, he felt Anakin's agreement.

The Leviathan sailed on, carrying four survivors of the Valyrian expedition who alone had found true wonder in the ancient ruins. They would speak to none of the hidden temple's greatest secrets, but they carried with them fresh hope for the battles yet to come.

And so, beneath a sky torn by red clouds and a sun half-hidden by ash, Jon Snow and his companions—Oberyn Martell, Ellaria Sand, and Obara Sand—turned their faces toward the open sea, never forgetting the revelations gleaned in that lost Jedi temple. Their hearts beat with a shared resolve, for the dead city behind them was but the beginning of a far greater struggle.

No one among the crew could guess that, in time, the forging knowledge and hidden technology gleaned from Valyria's depths might reshape the fate of Westeros—and perhaps save it from a night without end. But Jon knew, and in the quiet of his cabin each evening, he meditated on the Force, recalling how Brandon the Builder had entrusted him with this destiny.

Step by step, sword by sword, alliance by alliance, he would be ready.

Even as the waves carried them away, Valyria's monstrous skyline vanished beneath the horizon, leaving behind only the memory of ash and ruin. But the spark of hope that Jon Snow bore within would outlast every shadow, guiding him in the battles to come—and forging a path by which the White Walkers might finally be vanquished forever.