A Requiem of Ash and Stars

CHAPTER 6: MARCHES OF FLAME AND SHADOW

Time was a deceptive thing, Jon Snow had come to realize. Months could pass in a blur, or stretch out like centuries, depending on how fate chose to play its hand. Ever since he and the surviving crew of the Leviathan had departed the cursed shores of Valyria, it felt as though a lifetime had unspooled before him. In the beginning, there had been the frenzy of returning to Essos, where they sold the wealth of Valyrian steel and armor gleaned from the hidden temple's trove. The profit was staggering. The men and women who survived that journey each walked away with enough coin to pay off kingdoms' debts—a windfall so vast that only the cunning or the wise knew how not to squander it.

Amid that swirl of newfound riches, Jon walked a careful line between open dealings and private schemes. He had not revealed all the secrets of the forge he'd discovered deep beneath Valyria's ruins, for that knowledge was too dangerous—and too vital—to share freely. Instead, he had parted with only a modest fraction of the spoils, enough to make each survivor of the Leviathan wealthy beyond imagination. Swords that might have been plucked from dreams, suits of armor that glistened with the smoky sheen of Valyrian steel: each fetch a king's ransom on the open markets of Essos. And so, for several moons, the Leviathan crew reveled in taverns and pleasure houses from Pentos to Myr, scattering gold and silver as though it might never run dry.

Jon, however, chose a different path. With Oberyn Martell, Ellaria Sand, and Obara Sand at his side, he immersed himself in the free cities' labyrinthine customs, learning as much about Essos as possible. Oberyn, who was no stranger to the exotic corners of this land, served as both mentor and guide, introducing Jon to contacts among mercenary companies, local lords, and wealthy slavers. Where the Dornish prince walked, respect or fear followed, and that opened doors to knowledge few others could glean so quickly.

But time moved on, and even friendships forged in peril sometimes parted ways. Oberyn, Ellaria, and Obara eventually needed to return west. They had responsibilities in Dorne, and Oberyn himself was too restless a spirit to remain in Essos forever. Before they left, Oberyn pressed into Jon's hand a small emblem carved from amber, bearing the sun-and-spear sigil of House Martell. "Should you ever venture to Dorne," Oberyn told him, "present this. You'll be welcomed as kin in my house." They embraced as brothers might, each acknowledging they had shaped one another's destinies in ways large and small. Then the Dornish trio boarded a vessel bound for their homeland, leaving Jon on the wharf in Myr with an unspoken promise to reunite one day.

From that point on, Jon made his own way across Essos. Driven by the plan he had formed with Anakin Skywalker—whose ghostly presence still guided Jon's every step—he began building connections and resources. He purchased a lean-masted ship of moderate size, naming it the Summer's Wind, manning it with a small hired crew. It was a token crew at best, for soon Jon learned an even more striking trick: using the Force to guide the sails and rudder by himself when need be. Anakin called this "focus training," a means to sharpen Jon's control over telekinesis, weather sense, and subtle manipulations of the wind. More than once, Jon sailed the Summer's Wind alone, cutting across the waters of the Summer Sea or creeping along the eastern coasts of Slaver's Bay. The crew, freed of typical duties, spent those voyages slack-jawed, for it was not every day one saw ropes and sails move as though by unseen hands.

Jon used these journeys to return to Valyria in secret, slipping past the illusions and ashen dread that warded those broken shores. There, he retrieved more weapons and armors from the hidden forge or from other minor caches that he and HK-47 (the ancient droid guardian) had identified. Each new trove he took with utmost caution, ensuring no prying eyes followed. The rumors that "someone" was smuggling out more Valyrian steel soon spread among the sellsword companies, but no one tied those rumors to Jon Snow—the quiet "sorcerer" or "mage" from the North.

With each haul, Jon's coffers swelled. Eventually, he entrusted the Iron Bank of Braavos with a vast portion of his fortune. The bankers there, men and women of stern reserve, recognized the scale of his deposits and offered him terms normally reserved for kings or Wise Masters of the Free Cities. Jon, never one for opulence, stored enough to buy fleets, armies, even entire city-states if the need arose. All that he kept hidden, revealing only a fraction of his dealings to the outside world. Meanwhile, the handful of Valyrian blades or pieces of armor he sold on the sly, each piece discreetly traced so that if trouble rose, he could pull levers of influence.

Such was his life for many months, a nomadic existence from port to port, forging alliances in shadows, exploring rumor-laden corners of Essos. Through it all, Anakin's voice in Jon's mind reminded him of the grander plan: Prepare for the Long Night. Unite or conquer the realms. Train Force-sensitives. Only then will you stand a chance. Jon had no illusions about the immensity of that goal, but each new contact, each gold dragon he earned, each rumor of hidden powers he investigated—these formed the stepping stones to that distant victory.

Eventually, Jon turned his gaze north, to Braavos, seat of the mighty Iron Bank and a bastion of the Faith of R'hllor in Essos. On earlier visits, he had glimpsed the Red Temple from afar—its tall spires bathed in firelight, chanting priests worshiping the Lord of Light. But he had never set foot inside to speak with their high priest or priestess. Now, with a sense of inevitability, he decided the time had come. Rumors said the Red Faith possessed oracles of fire who could see glimpses of the future. They might be allied with or opposed to the White Walkers. They might be Force-sensitive in some capacity. Jon needed answers.

And so it was that he found himself once more entering Braavos under a pale morning sun, the sea breeze tangling his dark hair as the Summer's Wind glided through the Titan's imposing shadow. Braavos had not changed: canals and arched bridges, towers rising from the lagoon, the bustle of brash watermen singing bawdy tunes. Masked courtesans strolled on slender gondolas, while foreign merchants bargained in the open squares. Jon's arrival drew little fanfare. One more solitary traveler, wearing a black cloak pinned with a simple metal clasp, carrying a sword sheathed in a battered scabbard. Yet the Force hummed a subtle greeting in the city's many lives. Braavos was old, built on rebellion against Valyria, shaped by ex-slaves who vowed never to bow again. The energy of that vow lingered in its labyrinthine streets.

Jon moored his ship at a modest berth near the Purple Harbor, paying the dockmaster in gold coins. He left the Summer's Wind under the watchful eye of a few loyal crew—men who respected him enough not to pry. A brisk walk through narrow alleys brought him to the district overshadowed by the Red Temple's looming presence. Crimson banners fluttered from tall spires, each emblazoned with the flame sigil of R'hllor. Incense drifted from braziers along the temple's approach, giving the air a pungent tang of myrrh and spice. The crowd here comprised worshipers, pilgrims, curiosity-seekers, and a few Red Priests in robes of scarlet and gold.

Jon's approach did not go unnoticed. Priests and acolytes paused mid-step, eyes widening. Whispers spread swiftly: "The one from the flames has come," or "He who travels with shadows." The hush that fell around him was almost reverent, though he'd done nothing to earn such veneration. Startled, Jon slowed, scanning the faces of the worshipers. Acolytes bowed their heads as he passed. Some reached out to brush the hem of his cloak, as if hoping for a blessing. The Force rippled with solemn recognition, as though the air had already been primed for his arrival.

Confused, Jon turned to the nearest Red Priest, a middle-aged man with a shaved head and a face full of quiet wonder. "Why are you… greeting me this way?" Jon asked softly, a swirl of unease in his chest. "I'm nobody special."

The priest bowed low. "Lord of Light guide me. You are the one we saw in the flames. We have waited for you. Please, follow me. The High Priest bade us prepare a welcome."

Jon's heart fluttered with alarm. They saw me in the flames? That meant these priests truly had some method of prophecy. He glanced around for any sign of treachery, but the Force whispered caution, not immediate danger. He nodded, letting the priest lead him onward.

Another priest, a woman in scarlet vestments, joined them, her expression awed. She cast curious glances at Jon's sword and the embroidered clasp at his cloak's collar—a new sigil of Jon's own design, though he rarely displayed it. She said in a breathless tone, "We knew you would come. R'hllor revealed it. We have… so much to show you."

Anakin's presence flickered at Jon's side, unseen by all but him. Stay calm, the ghost's voice intoned. They might be allies or adversaries, but let's see where this leads.

Jon mustered calmness, walking between the lines of worshipers, who parted like a tide to let him pass. Tall, flaming torches adorned the main doors of the Red Temple, which stood open in broad invitation. From within echoed chanting—a language that wound through the air with a haunting melody. The priests escorted Jon through the grand entrance, into a cavernous hall dominated by an enormous statue of a robed figure wreathed in flames, presumably R'hllor. Huge braziers along the walls cast dancing firelight across polished red marble floors. Incense clouds wafted overhead, making the air thick and heady.

Jon couldn't help but recall the Jedi temples or enclaves that Anakin had shown him in memory—this was not dissimilar in scale or solemnity, though obviously steeped in a different tradition. He gently probed the priests with questions, hoping to glean how they knew of him.

"How did you see me?" he asked as they walked deeper into the labyrinth of corridors. "Are you truly able to glimpse the future in fire?"

The older priest nodded. "Yes, my lord. We pray to R'hllor, the Lord of Light, and he grants us visions. Flames reveal a path, though it's often cryptic. We saw a figure of shadows and light crossing seas, forging steel in secret. You wore a wolf's mantle in the flames. We recognized you the moment we glimpsed your face."

Jon's pulse quickened. "Then you're… Force-sensitive, in some way?"

The priest and priestess exchanged puzzled looks. The woman said, "We call it the gift of R'hllor. He touches some of us more strongly. It lets us read the flames, shape illusions of fire, or channel healing. Others can resurrect the dead in his name. We do not know the term 'Force-sensitive,' but I suspect it is akin to what you speak of. Our power is limited, for R'hllor is a demanding god."

Jon mulled that over. So they're using the Force through the lens of their faith. That matched some earlier revelations from the Valyrian temple and from R'hllor's rumored presence in the world. Not all "gods" were literal gods, but might be ascended Force-users or remnants of old rituals. Jon pressed them further: "Why do you revere me so strongly? I'm no holy man."

The older priest bowed his head as they reached a carved archway leading to an inner courtyard. "We do only as R'hllor commands. He has shown us that you have a role in the war to come, a war that threatens all life. The Great Enemy stirs in the far north, the darkness that seeks to snuff out light. R'hllor's oracles speak of you as the champion who must unite the living. The Lord of Light wishes us to aid you."

Jon felt a tremor of relief. If the Red Faith was on his side, that was one more ally in the coming apocalypse. "I'm grateful," he said softly. "You should know that the path I walk is complicated. The realm—both Essos and Westeros—might resist me. I might need to do things that seem… harsh."

The priestess gave him a solemn look. "We care only that you snuff out the Great Enemy. We will lend you what aid we can. Our High Priest awaits you now."

She gestured to a tall set of doors etched with flame motifs. Jon's heart pounded. Anakin's presence flared with warning. Stay vigilant, the ghost advised. We still don't know this High Priest's intentions.

Jon nodded inwardly and stepped through. The interior chamber was smaller than the grand hall but still impressive. A wide circular dais at the center was surrounded by a ring of flickering candles. The walls bore murals depicting scenes of prophecy—heroic warriors battling skeletal armies under an ashen sky. Atop the dais stood a single figure, draped in heavy red robes embroidered with gold. His head was shaved except for a single topknot. His eyes glowed with fervor even in the dim light.

"Welcome," he said in a resonant voice. "I am Benerro, High Priest of the Red Temple in Braavos. Praise be to R'hllor for granting me this moment." He beckoned. "Come closer, Jon Snow."

Jon approached warily, noticing how the candle flames seemed to bend toward Benerro, as though drawn to him. The High Priest exuded an aura of Force energy, perhaps more potent than the others. "Thank you for receiving me," Jon said.

Benerro nodded. "The Lord of Light has guided us to you for a reason. This is a sacred day. We have gleaned many shadows in the flames—portents of war, of a second Long Night. You stand at the center."

Jon hesitated, then decided directness was best. "Yes, there is a war coming. I intend to stop it. I hoped your faith might help me."

Benerro's voice dropped to a hushed tone. "We shall do more than help. We shall serve. But first…" He pressed a hand to his own chest. "R'hllor wishes to speak with you directly."

A jolt ran through Jon. "Directly?"

Benerro's eyes closed. "I open myself to the flame, to the will of the true God of Light. Let him enter me, that his words may pass unfiltered."

Before Jon could protest or question, the High Priest's form stiffened. A swirl of shimmering heat lines rose from the circle of candles, coiling around Benerro like living fire. Jon sensed a Force disturbance, but it felt alien—unlike telekinesis or illusions. This was more akin to a possession or communion, as if Benerro's own mind yielded to a greater presence. The swirling lines converged, and the High Priest's eyes snapped open, blazing with molten gold. His lips curled in an otherworldly smile.

When he spoke, the voice was both Benerro's and not: layered, resonant, echoing with centuries of authority. "Jon Snow," it intoned, "I have awaited you."

Jon's heart hammered. R'hllor?

He sensed Anakin stir at his shoulder, invisible but present. This is remarkable, the ghost murmured. I've never seen a Force manifestation quite like this.

Benerro's possessed form turned its gaze slightly, as if seeing not only Jon but also the shimmering silhouette of Anakin. The entity's eyes widened with what might have been amusement. "Skywalker," it said. "You linger beyond mortal death. I greet you, old traveler from the stars."

Jon froze, shock lancing through him. Anakin had encountered many Force-sensitives in this world, but none had perceived his spirit so directly. "You… can see him?" Jon breathed.

"I see all that the flame reveals," R'hllor intoned through Benerro's lips. "We are alike, in a way. Once, I too was a mortal. The Doom of Valyria birthed me and the others, forging us into what men call gods."

Anakin's presence flickered. A mortal turned into an energy being? he asked, intrigued. How?

R'hllor answered, as though reading Anakin's unspoken thoughts. "A madman unleashed a grand Force ritual, sacrificing a billion souls. He sought absolute dominion, but was devoured by his own spell. The power scattered among those strong in the Force, who were present in Valyria's darkest hour. We—myself, the Drowned God, the Seven, the Many-Faced God—ascended to a godlike state. We lost our mortal names and much of our memories, yet we endured as conduits of power."

Jon shivered. "So you're telling me the gods of this world are actually remnants of that ancient cataclysm?"

R'hllor nodded through Benerro. "Yes. The Old Gods, however, differ. They are the Force made manifest in weirwoods, unshaped by mortal minds. But many of the so-called 'gods' are my fellow ascendants from Valyria's first Doom. Over time, some have allied with darkness, out of fear or hunger for souls. The Corpse Queen stirs, feeding on the terror that grows in the far north."

Jon tightened his fist around the hilt of his sword. "That aligns with what I learned from Brandon the Builder's ghost. Are you telling me the Seven themselves side with the White Walkers?"

R'hllor's possessed face grimaced. "Some of them have chosen caution over valor. They see that the White Walkers might triumph if men remain disunited. They'd prefer to remain on the winning side to preserve their essence. Not all, but most. The Many-Faced God stands with me, as do the Old Gods. The Drowned God vacillates, still resentful of the land folk, but leans to the dark."

Jon nodded grimly. "Then you three are my allies in spirit—R'hllor, the Many-Faced God, and the Old Gods?"

R'hllor's golden gaze flickered. "Yes. We have influenced events to bring you forth. We had our worshipers watch the flames for your coming. We set certain illusions to guide you. You have done well forging alliances, building fortunes, preparing for war. I ask now: how do you plan to unify these warring realms?"

Anakin's voice nudged Jon. Tell him the truth.

Jon cleared his throat. "We—Anakin and I—spent many months debating. The people of this world won't unite willingly, or not in time. The lords and kings are too selfish, the free cities too divided. We see no choice but conquest, forging a single realm under my banner, with an army strong enough to face the White Walkers. I'll gather Force-sensitives, train them. We'll need more than swords. We need an order of warriors who can stand against the night."

R'hllor's eyes glowed brighter. "Pragmatic. The Others awaken soon, and men's petty squabbles hamper any grand alliance. Conquest is a harsh path, but perhaps the only one. We—my followers—shall do what we can to ease your way."

Jon mustered his courage. "Then I need your aid. Specifically, I'd like you to find and protect my… aunt and uncle. Targaryens. They live somewhere in Essos, likely in hiding. If the realm learns of them, they might be in danger. I also hope to gather House Targaryen's support, for they once commanded dragons that might help in the war to come."

R'hllor nodded through Benerro. "Consider it done. We shall send red priests far and wide to locate your kin and keep them from harm."

Jon continued, "And the Many-Faced God? I'd like to meet that entity or his followers. Their skill in stealth and assassination might prove crucial. If they share your stance, I want to coordinate with them."

R'hllor's possessed face curved in a cryptic smile. "You need not search them out. Even now, the Faceless Men gather. They have read the omens and know of your destiny. Their patron will come to you soon, in a shape you may not expect."

Jon exchanged a glance with Anakin's invisible figure. The ghost radiated thoughtful concern, but offered no interruption. "All right," Jon said. "Then we wait for them. In the meantime, I'll keep preparing. My plan is to build a base of power in Essos—collecting force-sensitives, forging an army. Then, when the time is right, I'll cross to Westeros. I must unify or conquer the Seven Kingdoms. There's no other path."

R'hllor studied Jon's face, the candle flames dancing along the edges of Benerro's robe. "A formidable undertaking. Many will die. But better that than letting the Great Other devour the realm. We stand with you, Jon Snow. Be warned: the path of conquest invites darkness. Guard your soul. Use this power, do not let it use you."

Jon bowed his head. "I'll remember. I don't want to become a tyrant. But I'll do what must be done."

The swirling aura around Benerro diminished slightly, as though the connection with R'hllor was fading. "Our time is short. One last matter: Brandon the Builder, your ancestor, understood the forging of unique weapons. You must rediscover or craft your own lightsaber. Valyrian steel alone may suffice against lesser wights, but not the Night Queen herself. You will require a blade of pure energy and the knowledge to wield it. Seek the crystals, gather the adept."

Jon nodded, feeling a pang of urgency. "I will. I have some leads. Thank you, R'hllor."

A final blaze of light flared around the High Priest, then died away. Benerro sagged, gasping. The gold in his eyes extinguished, replaced by his normal dark irises. Smoke rose faintly from his robes. Priests rushed to his side, helping him stay upright. He coughed, blinking in confusion, though a faint memory of what transpired seemed to remain in his expression.

"Forgive me," he croaked at Jon. "R'hllor's presence… it is overwhelming. Did you… speak? Was your audience fruitful?"

Jon managed a reassuring nod. "It was, High Priest. Thank you for allowing that communion."

Benerro gave a faint smile, though he still trembled. "We serve the Lord of Light in all things. I… I heard only fragments of what passed through me. But you must know we stand ready to aid you. The Red Temple of Braavos will provide shelter, resources, and a network of eyes that spans much of Essos."

Jon inclined his head gratefully. "I'm in your debt." He hesitated, then added, "Thank you."

Benerro mustered enough strength to straighten. "Go, with R'hllor's blessing. My acolytes will see to your comfort in Braavos. If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask."

With that, the High Priest sank onto a stone bench, a caretaker pressing a cool cloth to his brow. Jon stepped back, mind awhirl with everything he had learned. The "god" R'hllor was in fact an ascended Force-user from Valyria's ancient, cataclysmic doom, just as others—like the Many-Faced God and aspects of the Seven—were as well. Each schemed or chose sides in the cosmic battle to come. The knowledge was sobering, reaffirming Jon's sense that the true conflict raged far beyond mortal politics.

He left the chamber, priests bowing as he passed. Out in the corridor, he paused, letting out a shaking breath. Anakin's voice was measured. It seems your plan is accepted by R'hllor. You have more allies now. That's good, but be cautious. Allies with godlike power can be as dangerous as enemies.

Jon nodded mentally. I know. But I'll take their help for now. The Others won't wait for courtesy.

Making his way to the temple's courtyard, he found the same priestess from earlier. She offered him a small token: a pendant shaped like a flame. "This is R'hllor's signet," she said. "Present it to any Red Priest across the Narrow Sea or Essos. They will heed your call. We wish you fortune, champion."

Jon tucked the pendant away, acknowledging the gravity of such a gift. Then, needing fresh air, he stepped outside, the sunlight striking his eyes after the dimness inside. A wave of relief washed over him. The conversation with R'hllor had set many things in motion. Even so, the path ahead was steep: forging an empire to challenge the White Walkers, forging a lightsaber to face the Night Queen, uniting or crushing the fractious peoples of two continents. All while ensuring he did not fall into tyranny or madness.

He inhaled, letting the crisp Braavosi air fill his lungs. The city around him bustled with normalcy—canal boats punting along, vendors shouting about eels or sweet pastries, brazen-faced bravos swaggering with thin swords. None suspected that a conversation of cosmic scale had just transpired inside the temple. None realized that the doom of the world hinged on alliances with gods.

Jon turned to Anakin's invisible shape. Let's find lodging, regroup, then figure out the next step. Maybe I can talk with the Iron Bank about financing an army. Or with the captains at the Purple Harbor. I need more ships, more men, and I need to find these Force-sensitives we've heard about. R'hllor said the Seven tried to eradicate all Force-users in Westeros, so Essos is where they flourish.

Anakin gave an approving nod. Yes, building a core of adepts who can be trained is crucial. Let's keep our eyes open for signs among the Red Priests, the warlocks of Qarth, the shadowbinders in Asshai… Many have glimmers of the Force. We can gather them, teach them, give them purpose.

Jon squared his shoulders. It was a monumental task. But he no longer doubted himself so keenly. Valyria, Brandon the Builder, R'hllor's confirmation—these had convinced him that he was indeed the key figure in this war. A bastard of Winterfell, shaped by a Jedi ghost from another galaxy, forging an empire to fight the Long Night. A story too wild to be believed, yet here he stood. He could almost hear Arya's laughing disbelief, or Sansa's scorn, or even Eddard Stark's quiet confusion. One day, perhaps, Jon mused, I'll stand before them in truth, and they'll see what I've become.

But that day was not yet. For now, he turned his steps away from the Red Temple, crossing the city's winding streets, guided by the Force's subtle pulses. He felt R'hllor's echo behind him, a cosmic presence that watched. We're not alone, but we must be mindful. The path of conquest could become a path of darkness if he let hatred or ambition devour him. He needed allies, but he must remain the master of his own destiny. That was the lesson Anakin had hammered home repeatedly: do not become what you hate.

Near the edge of the city's main canal, he found a modest inn of decent repute, identified by a sign of a silver moon cresting a wave. He paid for a private room, stowed his gear, and sat at a small table to gather his thoughts. Night drew close, the braziers along the canals flickering to life. People came and went, their laughter or curses drifting through the open windows.

Jon felt the swirl of possibility. Where to begin? Perhaps he'd contact the Iron Bank tomorrow, or approach the mercenary captains at the Moon Pool. Or put out discreet notices for anyone with "unusual gifts," offering coin. A hundred angles, each laced with risk. He closed his eyes, letting the Force settle him. In that calm, he sensed a flicker—something shifting in the city's intangible tapestry. As if a new presence approached, one cloaked in shadows, waiting. The Many-Faced God?

He opened his eyes again, exchanging a silent thought with Anakin. Stay alert. Something is coming.

The ghost agreed. Yes. We'll face it together.

Jon rose, gazing at his reflection in a small polished mirror. A different man from the boy who once sparred in Winterfell's yard. Now he was a traveler of worlds, a wielder of hidden powers, an heir to secrets older than the Wall. One step at a time, he reminded himself. One conquest at a time.

He turned away from the mirror, extinguishing the lamp. Outside, the city's night scape glowed with lanterns. He felt no fear. The gods—once men—aligned around him. The Red Temple called him champion, the White Walkers stirred, and the game of thrones that spanned continents would soon shift under his determination. It was a heavy burden, but he shouldered it with quiet resolve.

Thus ended another day in Braavos, and the first of many that would shape Jon's ascent to power in Essos. Tomorrow, he would begin forging the alliances needed to crush all enemies, mortal and immortal alike. The Lord of Light had blessed him, the Many-Faced God would soon appear, the Old Gods still watched from the weirwoods, and Anakin guided him with Jedi wisdom. We can do this, Jon told himself.

His heart beat steady as the tides. We must do this.

The night stretched on, and the city breathed. Far above, a half-moon drifted behind ragged clouds. In a quiet room lit only by faint starlight, Jon Snow stood on the threshold of tomorrow, a conqueror in the making, an instrument of destiny. And beyond that, in the silent expanse of the Force, countless threads aligned for war, each beckoning the final confrontation that would decide the fate of the living world.