A Requiem of Ash and Stars

CHAPTER 7: OATHS OF WOLF AND FLAME

Jon Snow slept lightly, his mind drifting along the edges of deep slumber. The inn's modest bed felt strangely weightless beneath him, as though he floated in some unseen current. Outside, Braavos slumbered in the hush before dawn, its canals quiet, its bridges dark. Yet in the hidden labyrinth of Jon's dreams, a summons stirred.

He heard the faintest chime—a bell tolling once, twice, thrice. On the third peal, darkness gave way to a realm of shifting grey and white mists. A line break split that emptiness, revealing a pale corridor framed by countless doors. Each door bore an image: a face carved in relief, some serene, some contorted in terror, some unearthly calm. The corridor stretched into infinity, beyond the limits of mortal sight.

Jon stood at its threshold, barefoot, dressed in a simple grey tunic. At his side, as ever, hovered Anakin Skywalker's spirit, invisible to most eyes. But here, in the space between dreams and reality, Jon perceived Anakin more clearly. The Force ghost's expression held watchful curiosity.

A figure waited at the corridor's far end: tall, cloaked, wearing a robe of black so absolute that the edges blurred against the shifting mist. Its face was a mask—smooth, featureless, reflecting no light. Jon's heart hammered. He knew, somehow, that he was in the domain of the Many-Faced God. He had not expected the god to appear so literally. Yet here he was, or rather, here was that presence.

Jon swallowed, stepping forward. As he did, the corridor's doors slid away, and the figure approached him at an unhurried pace. It moved like a wraith, yet the Force within this realm crackled with subdued intensity.

"Welcome, Jon Snow," said the cloaked being. Its voice was calm and resonant, neither male nor female, but both, carrying a thousand nuances at once. "I have anticipated our meeting for some time."

Jon inclined his head in a half-bow. "Then you must be the Many-Faced God."

A soft chuckle. "That is one of my names, yes. Or the Great Other to some, the God of Death to others. Yet I was once a mortal man, no different from your ancestor."

Jon felt a pang of recognition. "You were friends with Brandon the Builder."

The Many-Faced God's masked visage dipped in acknowledgment. "Indeed. Brandon and I shared many journeys before the forging of the Wall. He was my sworn brother in arms, though he walked a different path in the end. You remind me of him: the same quiet resolve, the same willingness to do the unspeakable for the sake of the realm. Our last meeting was his departure for the North, to quell the Long Night. I remained behind, establishing my own order, which men now call the Faceless Men."

Jon's chest tightened. In the swirl of dreamlike memory, he recalled glimpses of Brandon's spirit from the Valyrian temple. "Tell me, how was he your friend? Was he…like me?"

"Brandon possessed the Force, or as we called it then, the Song of Many Voices. His powers surpassed mortal limits. He built alliances among the living gods—the Old Gods, the energies of weirwoods. He and I parted ways when he chose to lead armies in open battle, while I retreated into shadows, waging war in subtler fashions. Yet we never ceased to respect one another." The masked being paused. "He spoke of you long ago, believing one day a descendant of his line would finish what he began."

Jon forced a thin smile. "He told me something similar. That I'm meant to unite the realm and defeat the Corpse Queen. Your presence here—does that mean you support my cause?"

The figure inclined its mask. "Absolutely. I bend my knee to you, Jon Snow. My order, the Faceless Men, is yours to command. We have awaited the chosen champion, a dream left unfulfilled since Brandon's era."

A wave of surprise and gratitude swept through Jon. This was no small matter: the greatest assassins, the most elusive spy network in the world, pledging themselves to his mission. "Thank you," he murmured. "I accept. I'll need all the help I can get."

The Many-Faced God stepped forward until the distance between them was a single pace. Anakin hovered at Jon's right shoulder, watchful. The being gazed upon Anakin, though the mask showed no eyes. "Greetings to you, traveler from beyond. Brandon once recounted stories of beings who sailed the stars. I assume you are such a one."

Anakin dipped his spectral head. "Yes. I came from a distant galaxy. I guide Jon as best I can."

The Many-Faced God's voice softened with quiet admiration. "To see you walk this realm as a spirit, a Jedi among us. Brandon would have relished your counsel, I believe. He was ever curious about the Force's many facets."

Jon cleared his throat gently, reluctant to dwell on Brandon's memories. "You said you dedicate your Faceless Men to me. Then let's speak of what I need. First, I want a spy network—one that spans Essos and Westeros. I must know everything."

The entity's laugh was a whisper of wind. "That, we already possess in spades. For centuries, our hidden watchers have roamed each kingdom, each free city. We can uncover secrets no mortal spymaster ever dreamed of. My children, the Faceless Men, slip through walls and hearts. They heed my will."

Relief coursed through Jon. "Excellent. Next, I'd like a Faceless Man to join me personally. Even if I'm strong, I might face threats beyond my means alone. And Anakin taught me humility—there's always a chance an ally could save me from a fatal mistake."

The masked being lifted an arm, as though in blessing. "It shall be done. When you wake, one of my finest will be at your side, sworn to your service. She is as deadly as she is loyal to our cause."

A swirl of satisfaction pulsed in Jon's chest. "Thank you. I also want to ensure my… family is protected. My sister, Arya Stark. She's at Winterfell, and I worry about her safety. Could you station someone there to guard her?"

A silent nod. "Already in motion. One of our worshipers stands watch in the North. Should Arya Stark face peril, we will intervene—though discreetly. You have my word."

Jon felt the tension in his shoulders ease. "Thank you," he repeated. "Finally… I need your help finding the lightsaber of Meetra Surik, or some equivalent power source. Brandon told me it was passed down the Stark lineage, then lost by King Torrhen. I can't face the Corpse Queen unarmed."

For an instant, the dreamlike corridor flickered. The Many-Faced God sighed, a sorrowful note. "We have chased legends of that blade for centuries. My illusions walked the halls of the Citadel, the crypts of Winterfell, the vaults of Braavos. We found only half-truths and rumors. But fear not. My followers will redouble their search. And if the original blade proves elusive, we shall find a power cell or crystal akin to that which fueled it, so you can forge a new one."

Jon clenched his fists, gratitude mixing with renewed determination. "You've done so much. I… I don't know how to repay you."

A gentle laugh. "Brandon once asked the same. My only price is the fall of the Corpse Queen. She threatens the balance of life and death. That cannot stand."

The corridor's mists swirled around them, as though stirred by an unseen wind. The Many-Faced God stepped back, black robes fluttering. "One last matter, Jon Snow. Seek out the Isle of Faces, far in Westeros. There, the Fountain of Knowledge was once blessed by the Old Gods and by Brandon himself. Should you drink of its waters, your connection to the Force will deepen. Brandon once used it to repel the Corpse Queen's horde. You should do the same."

Jon's mind raced. "Isle of Faces… that's in the Gods Eye. Many say it's haunted, off-limits to men."

A near-smile curved the featureless mask. "A rumor fostered to keep the unworthy away. Go there when the time is right. Now, our time here ends, champion."

Anakin offered a nod to the masked entity. "We appreciate this alliance."

The Many-Faced God bowed, black robes sweeping the misty floor. "Awaken, Jon Snow. Take up your cause. My blessing is upon you."

A rush of wind blasted through the corridor, scattering the swirling doors. The dream splintered into shards of grey light. Jon felt himself falling, weightless, back into the comforting darkness of sleep.

––––––––––

Jon awoke with a sudden gasp, heart pounding. Pale morning light seeped through the shutters of his small chamber in Braavos. Outside, gulls squawked and ships' bells clanged softly. For a moment, he wondered if it had all been a vivid dream. But the Force thrummed in his chest, telling him it was real—a communion in the realm of the Many-Faced God.

He swung his legs off the bed, pausing to quell the dizzy sensation from abrupt waking. Anakin's presence glimmered near the foot of the bed, invisible but tangibly concerned. That was quite a meeting, the ghost said, voice echoing in Jon's mind.

Jon rubbed his eyes. Yes. I never imagined the Many-Faced God would be so… direct. But we have another ally, and that's a major victory. He stood, adjusting the black cloak he'd draped over a chair. He said I'd have a Faceless Man companion this morning.

As if on cue, a quiet knock sounded at his door. Jon froze, exchanging a glance with Anakin, then moved to open it. When he drew the latch, the door swung in, revealing a kneeling figure. Wrapped in simple traveler's garb—brown tunic, hooded cloak—the person was clearly female, lithe of form, with a pair of short blades strapped to her belt. She bowed deeply, face hidden under the hood.

"Good morning," Jon said cautiously.

She raised her head, revealing sharp features and dark hair braided close to the scalp. Her eyes, though calm, had an unsettling edge. "I greet you, Jon Snow," she said in a neutral accent. "I am known as Thorn when I wear this face. The Many-Faced God commanded me to serve you. I stand ready."

Jon shifted, not quite used to such reverence. "Rise, Thorn. If we're to work together, let's be on equal footing."

She stood, footsteps silent on the inn's wooden floor. "Thank you. I'll serve you as needed. My life is yours."

Jon closed the door behind her, stepping aside so she could enter the room. The space was cramped, with just a small table, bed, and chest. Thorn eyed the surroundings with the detached interest of a seasoned traveler. Jon took a seat on the edge of the bed, motioning for her to sit on the lone chair if she wished. She declined with a polite shake of the head, choosing to stand by the wall, arms folded.

"You know who I am," Jon said. "You heard the Many-Faced God's instructions, I assume?"

She nodded. "Yes, my master. I gather you have a cause that requires secrets, infiltration, and silent blades. My skills are at your disposal."

Jon's lips twitched in a faint smile. "I appreciate it. Let's start small: you can accompany me today. I have matters in Braavos to attend. Then, we'll travel from city to city, building alliances. Will that suit you?"

"Perfectly," Thorn replied, tone calm.

Anakin's voice murmured in Jon's head, She's a formidable presence, be cautious but also trust. The Many-Faced God wouldn't sabotage his own cause. Jon silently agreed.

"Let's get breakfast," Jon said aloud, heading toward the door. Thorn followed, gliding so softly that the floorboards made no sound beneath her boots. It reminded Jon of Arya's stealthy ways. He pushed that memory aside, focusing on the present.

They stepped into the corridor, descending to the inn's common room where the smell of fresh bread and spiced fish wafted. Dawn's hush still lingered; few patrons sat at tables, mostly sailors preparing for the day's labor. Jon found an empty corner table and motioned Thorn to join him. She sat with her back to the wall, eyes scanning for threats. He flagged down a server, ordering warm bread, salted cod, and a pitcher of watered wine.

Midway through their meal, footsteps approached. Jon looked up to see Head Priest Benerro of the Red Temple, flanked by two acolytes. The priest offered a polite bow. "Jon Snow, I hope I'm not intruding."

Jon gestured to the seat across from him. "Not at all, High Priest. You're up early."

Benerro took a seat, eyes flicking to Thorn, who offered only a slight nod. "It seems I can't afford to rest long. I come with news: we've found your aunt and uncle, as you requested. Viserys Targaryen and Daenerys Targaryen are in the fighting pits of Meereen, or so my sources say. They sought a livelihood, but ended up in harsh circumstances. Viserys fights as a gladiator, hoping to keep Daenerys fed."

Jon's heart clenched. He remembered requesting that R'hllor's followers track down his Targaryen relatives. The priests truly work quickly. "They're safe?"

Benerro grimaced. "As safe as one can be as a pit fighter. The High Priest of Meereen's Red Temple has dispatched men to retrieve them discreetly. They'll be brought to our temple there, hidden away from assassins. Once that's done, they can be escorted here, if you wish."

Jon let out a sigh of relief. "Yes, bring them here. I want to ensure they're well. Thank you."

Benerro inclined his head. "We serve the Lord of Light, who desires your success. As for your other inquiries, we stand ready. Now, is there anything else you need from us in Braavos?"

Jon exchanged a glance with Thorn. "Not for the moment, though I'll keep the lines of communication open." He paused, lowering his voice. "I plan to hire a mercenary company next. One called the Wolf Pack. They're apparently nearby, though I suspect they've a current contract. I hope to sway them to my side."

The priest nodded thoughtfully. "The Wolf Pack is famed for discipline. They have a certain code. Its founder, I recall, was rumored to be a bastard of House Stark exiled to Essos centuries ago." He smiled. "A poetic link to your ancestry."

Jon smiled back. "Indeed. It's time the wolves gather under one banner."

They ate in companionable quiet for a moment. Thorn picked at her bread with a neat economy of movement, always watchful of the room. Finally, Jon broke the silence again, voice low. "High Priest, there's another matter. I'd like you to organize infiltration of the Citadel in Oldtown. Certain documents exist: records of my birth, marriage certificates of my parents, journals. I want them retrieved or copied."

Benerro's brows rose. "The Citadel is no easy infiltration target. But with your combined resources, I assume it can be done."

Thorn cleared her throat softly. "If that's your will, I can dispatch some of my order to handle it."

Jon nodded. "Yes, please. I want proof of my lineage, in case I must challenge the lords of Westeros. Let's finalize that plan. We'll all meet again once the infiltration is complete."

The priest dipped his head. "Very well. Consider it done. My acolytes can coordinate with your… companion here." He glanced at Thorn with a faint note of caution. She returned his look with impassive politeness.

Their meal concluded with a few pleasantries, during which Benerro rose to leave, promising to send word if news arrived about Viserys and Daenerys. Thorn stood as well, following Jon to the street outside. Morning in Braavos was fully underway now: gondoliers punting travelers along the canals, fishmongers hawking fresh catches at the waterside stalls, city guards patrolling the cobbled lanes. A crisp breeze carried the briny scent of the sea.

"Where is this Wolf Pack located?" Jon asked Thorn once they stepped onto a quiet side street.

She tilted her head, listening as though to an unseen whisper. "They have a small fortress on the outskirts of Braavos, near the north gate. My order's intelligence says they've mustered there to defend the city from a rumored Dothraki incursion."

Jon arched an eyebrow. "Dothraki this far north, close to Braavos? That's unusual. They typically roam the Dothraki Sea, avoid crossing the Poison Sea. Unless they're hired by some free city or—"

Thorn shrugged. "Word is they came on ships, possibly allied with certain Myrish interests. But it matters little. The Wolf Pack's contract is to protect Braavos from any Dothraki raid."

Jon's mood turned grim. "Well, let's hope we can persuade them to break or complete their contract quickly. We need them. Let's go."

They made their way through a maze of lanes and footbridges until they reached the city's northern gate. Beyond lay a stretch of farmland dotted with small hamlets, overshadowed by a squat fortress that bristled with ballistae at its corners. A banner depicting a grey wolf's head on a snowy field fluttered over the gatehouse. Jon felt a surge of pride at seeing the Stark-like sigil in Essos, even if it was not precisely the direwolf of Winterfell.

Armed sentries in battered plate spotted Jon and Thorn's approach, crossing spears to bar their way. "Halt!" one barked. "State your business with the Wolf Pack."

Jon eased back his cloak, revealing the hilt of his sword in a gesture that suggested both readiness and no immediate threat. "I'm Jon Snow. I seek an audience with your commander. I'd like to hire your company."

The guard's gaze flicked to Thorn, who met his scrutiny with a level stare. After a moment, he gestured for a second guard to run inside. "Wait here." The minutes stretched, tension building. Thorn stood motionless, reminding Jon of a coiled serpent. Eventually, the second guard returned, beckoning them in.

They crossed a small courtyard where a group of mercenaries sparred. Others lounged near a fire, sharpening weapons. The atmosphere crackled with disciplined readiness—this was no ragtag band, but a professional outfit. The fortress was basic, walls of sturdy stone, a simple keep. Banners with the grey wolf were posted in corners. Men and women in partial armor eyed Jon and Thorn suspiciously, but no one interfered.

Inside the main hall, a broad-shouldered man in plate armor sat at a table strewn with maps. A scar ran across his left cheek, and a streak of white cut through his dark hair. His face carried a somber gravity that told Jon this was no man to be trifled with.

"You're Jon Snow?" the commander rumbled, rising.

Jon inclined his head. "Yes. I've come to negotiate your company's service."

The commander flicked a glance at Thorn, then back to Jon. "I'm Loras Stonewolf, current head of the Wolf Pack. Our founder claimed descent from House Stark, a detail I see you're aware of." He gestured to the seat opposite. "Sit."

Jon complied. Thorn remained standing behind him, arms folded. Commander Stonewolf sat again, resting a hand near a massive warhammer propped by the table. "So. You want to hire the Wolf Pack for what? A personal war?"

Jon leaned forward, calm. "I intend to unify Essos, then Westeros, under my banner, to prepare for the threat known as the White Walkers. I need disciplined forces who can be loyal to a higher cause than gold. The Wolf Pack's reputation suggests you're the best fit."

Stonewolf snorted. "A bold claim. We have standards, Snow. We don't just do the highest bidder's dirty work. We keep our word. Right now, Braavos has hired us to defend against a potential Dothraki raid. We won't desert that contract."

Jon dipped his head, not surprised. "I respect that. Is there a way for you to fulfill or end your contract soon?"

Stonewolf sighed. "If we defeat the Dothraki, or if they never arrive, we can depart. Otherwise, Braavos needs us. If you want my men, end the threat." He shrugged. "But the horde numbers in the thousands. They're savage riders. Not so simple to brush them aside."

Jon felt a flicker of possibility. "If the Dothraki come, you fight them here, presumably in open field?"

Stonewolf nodded. "Yes. We have a formation tactic, using crossbows, pikes, shield walls. We'd stall them until Braavos musters more forces. I won't lie, casualties could be steep. But we keep our promises."

Jon admired the man's integrity. "Understood. I don't want to force you to break your vow. But if I handle the Dothraki threat for you, that frees you to join me, correct?"

The commander's brow furrowed. "If you kill them or drive them off, yes. Then Braavos no longer needs us. We'd be free to sign with whomever. But let's be realistic—there's a horde. You have, what, one companion? Unless you bring an army I haven't seen."

Jon suppressed a small smile. "Let me worry about that. Will you agree that if I remove the Dothraki problem, the Wolf Pack is mine to hire?"

Stonewolf scoffed, but the flicker of curiosity lit his eyes. "If you kill them all or rout them decisively, we'll talk. Until then, I won't break my contract."

Jon rose, extending a hand. "That's enough for me. I look forward to your cooperation soon."

Stonewolf eyed the hand warily, then clasped it. "I admire confidence, Snow. But do me a favor—don't throw your life away attacking them alone. Good men have died trying."

Jon just gave a mild nod, then turned to leave. Thorn followed, silent as a ghost. They stepped back into the courtyard, where mercenaries watched them depart with bemusement. Just as they neared the gate, a panicked shout rose. One of the Wolf Pack lookouts came sprinting from the parapet, breathless. "Commander! The Dothraki are here! They're approaching from the east, a huge vanguard!"

Chaos exploded. Men scrambled for weapons. A clarion call sounded across the fortress, summoning archers to the walls. Stonewolf burst from the hall, cursing. "Damn it, they arrived early. How many?"

The scout panted. "At least three thousand. Full cavalry, plus a retinue of foot. They're heading straight for us. Must've landed near the coast!"

Jon and Thorn paused by the gates, observing the sudden rush of Wolf Pack soldiers forming ranks. Stonewolf's bellow carried over the din: "Shields and crossbows on the walls, cavalry to the courtyard! Archers, stand ready!" Men poured forth, adrenaline surging.

Thorn glanced at Jon. "We should get clear, unless you plan to join their defense."

Jon's eyes narrowed. "I do plan to fight—but in my own way." He started forward, ignoring the frantic mercenaries.

Thorn blinked. "What do you mean? Are you truly going out there alone?"

Jon nodded, stepping past the gate. "You'll see. This is something Anakin and I prepared for. Stay near me but not too close."

She swallowed but followed, wariness etched on her face. The Wolf Pack men parted, letting Jon pass, uncertain what to make of this. Outside the fortress, a broad stretch of farmland lay between them and the eastern horizon, perhaps three football fields of distance. There, a massive dust cloud marked the Dothraki horde's approach. From the fortress walls, one could see dark shapes—thousands of horsemen, banners streaming, the thunder of hooves resonating like an oncoming storm.

Jon walked calmly to the midpoint, cloak fluttering in the rising wind. Thorn kept a short distance behind. Above, the sky was a crisp blue, oblivious to the carnage about to unfold. The Wolf Pack assembled in hurried lines, swords glinting, crossbows loaded, pikes anchored. They prepared for the inevitable clash. Some soldiers pointed at Jon's lone figure and muttered in confusion.

From the Dothraki side, war cries began to carry on the wind. Their horde fanned out, a brutal wedge of cavalry brandishing arakhs. At the far rear, a ring of foot soldiers marched, though the Dothraki were famed for preferring mounted warfare. Dust rose in a thick cloud around them.

Jon inhaled, feeling his heart rate spike. He remembered Anakin's repeated lessons: Kindness and empathy define the Jedi, but the galaxy is cruel. To defend innocents, sometimes a warrior must be ruthless like a Sith. Jon had witnessed that principle in battle before. Now, confronted by an entire horde, he realized he had no time for half measures. If the Wolf Pack was to be freed, if these Dothraki threatened Braavos, the solution was simple and terrible: destroy them.

He murmured to Anakin, "I'm not certain I'm ready for the darkness this demands. But I can't wait any longer."

Anakin's voice was gentle in his mind. I taught you to balance light and dark. You must harness your emotions without letting them consume you. The world's cruelty forces your hand. Don't let guilt paralyze you. Act, then make amends if you must.

Jon let out a shaky breath, halting. The Dothraki vanguard was perhaps two hundred yards away now, hooves pounding. The Wolf Pack behind him advanced as well, forming up. Jon closed his eyes, reaching deep into the Force. He summoned every memory: the injustice of his youth, the joy he felt with Arya, the frustration at the realm's apathy, the sense of awe discovering Valyria's secrets. Next, he tapped into Anakin's shared recollections: star-spanning battles, the dark side's pull, the heartbreak of betrayal. A tumult of rage, love, sorrow, and hope churned in his soul.

Lightning crackled in the corners of his mind, eager to be unleashed. He gripped the hilt of Northwatch, though he would not need the blade for this. The ground seemed to tremble underfoot. Thorn retreated a few steps, eyes wide.

The Dothraki war cry swelled—a fearsome ululation. Their cavalry lowered arakhs, urging horses to full gallop. The Wolf Pack saw them in the distance, raising crossbows, about to release bolts. But Jon stepped forward, exhaling a guttural growl. He lifted both hands, focusing on the swirling maelstrom of the Force. Sparks danced between his fingers, building into arcs of bluish-white electricity. The Dothraki thundered closer, seventy yards, sixty, fifty…

Jon let out all his emotions in a savage roar. The Force responded. A massive torrent of lightning erupted from his outstretched hands, an arcing storm that crackled across the field. The Wolf Pack halted in shock, crossbows wavering. Thorn threw herself flat, eyes clenched.

A cataclysm. Bolts of Force lightning lashed forward, striking the front ranks of the Dothraki horde. Horses screamed, men shrieked. Blue-white arcs danced from one rider to the next, spreading through the massed cavalry like a living storm. Flesh burned, armor melted. The momentum of their charge evaporated under an onslaught of raw power. The wave of energy coursed across them, unstoppable. One by one, they tumbled from saddles, convulsing as the lightning consumed them. Some tried to turn, but the arcs leaped from horse to horse. The entire vanguard crumpled in seconds.

Jon did not relent. Exhaustion nipped at his core, but he kept channeling the Force, blasting the rear lines of foot soldiers. They too collapsed, arms flailing, screams lost in the crackling thunder. Dark smoke rose, the stench of ozone and scorched flesh saturating the morning air. The noise was deafening, a rolling tempest that matched Jon's unleashing of raw emotion. Then, in a final surge, the lightning flared, snapping over every last Dothraki figure in sight, scorching them to lifeless husks.

Abruptly, the flow cut off. Jon gasped, staggering. The field before him was a graveyard of charred bodies and gutted horses, steam rising from the earth. No living foe remained. The Dothraki had been annihilated in the span of half a minute. Dizziness hit Jon like a hammer; he nearly collapsed. Thorn rushed forward, catching his elbow to steady him.

He tried to speak, but only a ragged breath emerged. The Force around him was a seething swirl, charged with the aftershock of that monstrous display. He felt numb, fighting the urge to vomit. So many lives… gone. Yet it was necessary, he told himself. The realm had no time for gentle solutions.

Behind him, the Wolf Pack ranks stood frozen, swords half-drawn, crossbows drooping. They stared at the wasteland of smoldering corpses, then at Jon's trembling figure. A ripple of fear swept through them. Some made warding signs, muttering about magic. Others just stared, speechless. The air stank of death.

Thorn slid Jon's arm over her shoulder. "Come," she whispered, voice steady. "Let's get you inside. You need rest."

He nodded weakly. Anakin's voice filled his head with worried pride. You did what had to be done. Breathe.

They trudged back to the fortress gates, the Wolf Pack soldiers parting to let them pass. Eyes wide, they gawked as Thorn supported Jon into the main courtyard. Commander Stonewolf emerged from the crush, features taut with disbelief. "Seven hells…" he muttered, transfixed by the single-handed extermination of an entire horde. "Y-you… ended them?"

Jon forced himself upright, mind still spinning. "They threatened Braavos. Now your contract is void. The Dothraki are gone."

Stonewolf's mouth opened and closed. Fear flickered in his eyes, tempered by a grudging respect. "Yes. Indeed. We owe you a… a debt. Come, let's talk in my war tent." He motioned to a large pavilion in the courtyard. Soldiers around them wore expressions that varied from awe to terror, clearly unnerved by Jon's power.

Thorn guided Jon to the pavilion, the flaps drawn wide. Inside, a circular table covered with maps dominated the space, braziers along the perimeter providing warmth. The Wolf Pack's senior officers crowded around, all eyeing Jon. He sank onto a bench, breathing heavily. Thorn stood at his side, her stance protective.

Commander Stonewolf waved the onlookers back. "Give him space, for the gods' sake." Then, focusing on Jon, he cleared his throat. "You… you ended our contract in one stroke. That means we're free to serve you, if that's still your intention."

Jon gulped water from a cup Thorn handed him. Sweat beaded his forehead. "Yes. I want the Wolf Pack. You're disciplined, honorable. I need that. But I also need you to accept… well, this." He gestured vaguely, as though referencing his supernatural might.

An uneasy shuffle passed among the officers. One older captain with a braided beard spoke up: "You're a sorcerer. That's not something we see kindly. But you did just save us from a bloody battle we might have lost. Hard to argue with results."

Stonewolf raised a hand for silence. "Before we swear, we'd like to know: who are you truly, Jon Snow? Why do you bear the sigil of a wolf? Are you of House Stark?"

Summoning the last of his composure, Jon stood. Though his limbs shook, his voice emerged firm. "I am Jon Snow, child of House Stark's blood. I carry the lineage of Brandon the Builder, the first men, the old ways. I found magic—call it the Force if you will—and now I use it to protect this world from a threat beyond all mortal comprehension."

A hush fell. The Wolf Pack men exchanged looks of uncertainty. Jon pressed on. "Yes, it's terrifying. But House Stark's motto warns that winter is coming. The Long Night returns. The White Walkers are real. I need an army. I need men who do not cower at the mention of magic. You descend from a bastard of Stark. That's your heritage, too—your founder believed in the old gods, old powers. If you can accept me, you'll stand at the forefront of a war to save humanity."

Silence reigned for several heartbeats. Then Stonewolf exhaled. "We are men of the North in spirit, carried to Essos. We grew up hearing legends of the direwolves, of the old gods. Maybe your power is just an extension of that. You're right: we can't pretend this world is normal. We just saw you decimate the Dothraki horde in moments."

The older captain nodded slowly. "My father taught me that House Stark was always touched by something older. I guess we can accept that. Better to serve our own bloodline than some random sellsword contract."

Stonewolf turned to Jon, expression grave but resolved. "Then the Wolf Pack is yours, Jon Snow. We pledge ourselves to your cause. Use us as you will."

A collective murmur of assent swept the officers. Some wore uneasy grimaces, but no one voiced open dissent. Stonewolf extended a gauntleted hand. Jon clasped it, relief tempered by the knowledge of what he had just done.

"Thank you," Jon said quietly. "We'll use your strength wisely. And I promise, I'll not betray your trust."

Stonewolf gave a curt nod. "In that case, the Wolf Pack stands ready. We have about fifteen hundred men here, plus scouts spread across Essos. Do you need us in Braavos longer, or shall we march?"

Jon considered. He was exhausted, but the plan was unfolding. "First, gather your men. Let them rest. We'll remain a few days to settle any final details with Braavos. Then we sail—there's a larger war to prepare for. I have alliances to build, force-sensitives to find, Targaryens to rescue, a thousand tasks."

Stonewolf's eyes flickered. "Yes, my lord. We'll do it. Just… let us never see such lightning again." A nervous half-joke, though the tremor in his tone was real.

Jon almost smiled. "I make no promises. But I hope it won't be necessary often."

With that, Thorn gently guided Jon to a seat, ensuring he drank more water. The Wolf Pack's officers dispersed, shouting orders for the men to stand down. Outside, the stench of burnt flesh lingered on the wind, a grim reminder of the cost. Jon tried to steady his breathing, pushing aside the swirling guilt. No time for regrets, he told himself. We do what must be done, or the White Walkers will do far worse.

As the day wore on, the Wolf Pack prepared to shift allegiance. The Braavosi authorities, once informed of the Dothraki's demise, swiftly released the mercenaries from their contract. Indeed, rumors spread of a "wolf sorcerer" who slew a horde in a single stroke. Many whispered that a demon walked among them, while others hailed Jon as a savior. But the city's elders, wanting no trouble, quietly paid the Wolf Pack for services rendered and let them go.

Jon returned to his inn that evening, Thorn at his side, feeling physically and emotionally drained. Even Anakin's encouraging presence couldn't fully dispel the heaviness in his spirit. Yet he reminded himself of the bigger picture: the Wolf Pack was now his, an invaluable asset. He had saved countless Braavosi lives from the Dothraki threat, albeit at the cost of thousands of raiders' lives. War was cruel. He had chosen to be the conqueror needed to unite the world. Better me than the Others, he thought grimly.

That night, as he lay in bed, Anakin's spirit hovered near. This was the first time you unleashed such lethal might on a grand scale, the ghost observed gently. You handled it with caution. Let this remind you always of the burden you carry. Never let yourself grow numb to it.

Jon stared at the ceiling's shadows, nodding. I won't. I promise.

The next morning, the Braavosi sun rose on a world where the Wolf Pack no longer served the city but marched under Jon Snow's banner. He and Thorn walked the fortress courtyard with Commander Stonewolf, finalizing details. Then they parted ways briefly, so Jon could gather funds from the Iron Bank for the Wolf Pack's upkeep. He was flush with Valyrian wealth, more than enough to keep the mercenaries well-paid and loyal.

By midday, the mercenaries had packed their tents and begun forming columns outside the city gates, ready to move wherever Jon commanded. Braavos itself seemed relieved to see them go, the tension of the Dothraki threat replaced by a sobering awareness of how quickly war could come to their doorstep.

As Jon stood on the outskirts, overlooking the lines of armed men, Thorn at his shoulder, she commented quietly: "They fear you. But they'll follow you. Is that enough?"

Jon let out a slow breath. "Fear can be a start, but respect is better. I'll earn that over time. I come from House Stark, after all—we keep our vows."

Thorn's lips curved in a rare smirk. "So I have heard. Where to next, then?"

Jon glanced at the horizon. R'hllor had agents bringing Viserys and Daenerys to safety. The Citadel infiltration was underway. The Many-Faced God's network was his. He had an entire mercenary army behind him. "We'll sail south, I think, then east. Secure more alliances. Recruit force-sensitives. Our final destination, eventually, is the Isle of Faces in Westeros. But not yet. We still need more strength."

Stonewolf approached, saluting with a fist to his chest. "We're formed up and ready, my lord. Just give the word."

Jon nodded. "Then let's march to the docks. We'll need ships to transport so many. Braavos might rent them out for a hefty sum, or the Iron Bank can help. Let's do that. We can't stay here."

Stonewolf bowed, turning to give orders to the unit captains. Gradually, the Wolf Pack broke into marching formations, heading for the city's harbor. People paused in the streets to watch the armed column pass, some whispering the name "Jon Snow" or "Shadow Wolf" as rumors spread.

Jon moved at the head of the procession with Thorn and Stonewolf, feeling the weight of every eye upon him. He'd begun the day as a wandering mage with a single companion. By midday, he was a warlord commanding fifteen hundred mercenaries, thanks to an act of terrifying sorcery. The sense of power was intoxicating, but also frightening. Anakin's voice in his mind reminded him to remain humble, to remember compassion, or risk turning into a monster.

As the Wolf Pack arrived at the docks, the reality of transporting so many men by sea loomed large. Yet the Iron Bank's representatives, upon hearing Jon's request, eagerly offered lines of credit and negotiation. The story of the Dothraki annihilation traveled fast, and no Braavosi official seemed eager to cross him.

Thus, by nightfall, deals were struck for enough ships to ferry the Wolf Pack in waves. While the final arrangements were made, Stonewolf's men pitched tents at the harbor's edge. Jon oversaw the loading of supplies, from dried rations to spare weapons. Thorn drifted in the shadows, ensuring no sabotage or theft occurred. All the while, the city's denizens kept their distance, both respectful and fearful of this new power broker.

Jon, standing on a pier in the fading light, stared at the anchor-laden vessels the bankers promised him. We're building an army, forging alliances with gods, slaying entire hordes. Where does it end? The answer, he knew, was the White Walkers' defeat or his own. No middle ground.

Anakin manifested silently at his side. Your journey escalates swiftly. But you're managing. Remember, the People of the North unite around strong leaders who keep them safe. The Wolf Pack is no different. They'll see your honesty, eventually.

Jon nodded. I hope so. He watched as torches ignited along the wharf, the city's night reflecting on black waters. Tomorrow, we sail. Another step in a long war.

He turned away, cloak swirling. Thorn fell in behind him. The Wolf Pack camp stretched across the waterfront, cooking fires burning, men laughing nervously at the day's events. Commander Stonewolf saw Jon pass and waved. Jon waved back, managing a tired smile.

Quietly, he reminded himself of the dream with the Many-Faced God: Don't forget the Isle of Faces. The fountain that might amplify my connection. He told Anakin mentally, Soon, we'll cross that threshold. Once I gather enough strength in Essos, we'll return to Westeros and claim what's mine. Then, we face the real war beyond the Wall.

Anakin's ghostly voice was resolute. We will be ready. The realm must be united, or all is lost.

Jon said nothing more, simply threading his way through the camp, each soldier saluting or bowing in awkward respect. He found his own small tent set near the water, a brazier flickering inside. Thorn followed, stating she'd guard him while he slept. He acquiesced, too weary to argue. As he lay down on a simple pallet, the echoes of the day's lethal sorcery drifted in his mind. He forced himself to remain calm, breathing slowly, recalling the vow he'd made to Anakin: Use power for a purpose, never for vanity or cruelty alone.

With that thought, he slipped into uneasy slumber, haunted by the image of lightning scouring a field of screaming men. In the quiet depths of his unconsciousness, he felt the faint reassurance of the Old Gods, R'hllor, and the Many-Faced God, each in their own way affirming that he walked a path chosen by fate. But the path was steep, fraught with moral peril, and every victory exacted a toll on his soul.

––––––––––

At dawn, Braavos awoke to the sight of the Wolf Pack's orderly embarkation. Ships lined the piers, and mercenaries boarded with disciplined efficiency. Jon supervised from a vantage, Thorn by his side, Stonewolf coordinating from another wharf. Goods and horses were loaded carefully. By midday, the Wolf Pack's first wave of ships cast off, sails unfurling in the breeze that drifted from the west. More waves would follow as soon as vessels returned.

Jon, Thorn, and a contingent of officers boarded the Summer's Wind, which Jon still captained. The craft set sail swiftly, leading the small flotilla out of Braavos's lagoon. Jon watched the Titan fade behind them, reflecting on how swiftly the city's fortunes had changed. By the time evening descended, Braavos was behind them, and the Wolf Pack's naval journey began in earnest, scattering across the seas on a route leading eventually to Pentos or Myr—wherever Jon felt next to build his alliances.

Standing at the prow of the Summer's Wind, the sea breeze tousling his hair, Jon gazed at the horizon. Thorn lingered a respectful distance away, scanning for threats. Stonewolf's flagship trailed them, a heavier carrack laden with men and arms. The scattered vessels of the Wolf Pack dotted the ocean behind, forging an impromptu fleet. In time, perhaps, Jon would gather even more ships, forging a navy to rival any free city.

He inhaled the salty air, letting the gentle rocking calm him. Beneath the deck, his power simmered—recently tested. The memory of incinerating the Dothraki horde weighed on him, but he pressed on. No turning back now, he told himself. The path is set. Conquest or oblivion. Anakin's spectral presence hovered near, silent but steady.

And so they sailed, bound for new challenges, leaving behind a city of canals that whispered rumors of the Wolf Sorcerer. In the swirling days and nights to come, Jon would guide the Wolf Pack across Essos, forging a new empire from the ashes of old hatreds. He carried the blessings of R'hllor, the Many-Faced God's stealth, the hidden truths of Valyria, and the steel will of House Stark. All these arms aimed at the distant foe beyond the Wall.

In that twilight hush, as sails snapped overhead and the Summer's Wind cut through dark waters, Jon Snow closed his eyes. He conjured images of Arya's mischievous grin, Sansa's prim smile, Bran's curious eyes, the father he barely knew, and the mother still shrouded in mystery. He recalled the Targaryens, their dragons lost, their line nearly extinguished. He remembered the promise of Brandon the Builder, that the night could be repelled if men stood united. And he remembered the flame, the lightning, the unstoppable fury he had summoned against the Dothraki. I must keep balance, he thought. For Arya, for the realm. For my soul.

As stars glimmered above, the sea stretched into the unknown, a stage for the wars to come. Yet a quiet determination filled Jon. Allies multiplied around him: R'hllor, the Many-Faced God, the Wolf Pack, the Faceless Men, the Red Priests. Slowly, steadily, a grand coalition formed to defy the Long Night's return. Whether the realm understood or not, he would shape it into a sword against the darkness.

Dawn would find them on open water, forging onward. And with each league, Jon Snow's legend grew, whispered among the fearful, revered by the faithful, dreaded by the corrupt. In the hush of the night, as the Wolf Pack's men dozed in their cramped bunks, Jon remained at the prow, gazing east where new powers awaited, where more challenge awaited.

His final thought before letting exhaustion claim him was of the Isle of Faces, where the Fountain of Knowledge beckoned. Soon, he promised. Once I have enough strength, I'll go there. Then we'll see if even the Corpse Queen can stand against us.

And the waves rolled on, carrying the echoes of a new world being born in shadows and flame.