A Requiem of Ash and Stars

CHAPTER 8: THE SEEDS OF LIBERATION

Jon Snow sat in the cramped cabin of his ship, the Summer's Wind, hunched over a wooden desk cluttered with scattered parchments, half-finished letters, and a single guttering candle. The cabin walls creaked softly with the ship's motion. Grey evening light filtered through the porthole, illuminating the tension etched on Jon's face. He had shed his cloak in the humid air, leaving him in a simple black tunic and breeches, boots braced against the desk as if expecting the deck to shift beneath him. His brow furrowed with intent concentration, for a figure across from him delivered a steady stream of new intelligence—information that could decide the fate of kingdoms.

Thorn stood to Jon's left, arms folded, posture poised. She was the Faceless Man assigned to him by the Many-Faced God, an unassuming woman whose lithe frame belied lethal skill. Her features were currently those of a dark-haired sellsword, but Jon knew the Faceless Men could shift appearances at will. Thorn maintained a quiet, efficient presence, passing letters and coded messages from the network of spies that now pledged allegiance to Jon's cause. Occasionally, her dark eyes flicked toward Jon's expressions, gauging his reactions.

"The Red Faith has succeeded in securing your aunt and uncle," Thorn said in a measured tone, sifting through a packet of sealed notes. "Viserys Targaryen and Daenerys Targaryen arrived at the head temple a few days past. According to our watchers, Daenerys has adapted well, thankful for a safe home. Viserys, by contrast, remains tense—he's wary of every shadow, as if waiting for knives in the dark. The Red Priests are keeping them hidden."

Jon nodded. A flicker of relief crossed his features. Months earlier, he had tasked R'hllor's priests to track down the last Targaryen heirs. Now, they were in safe hands, no longer forced to survive in the brutal pit-fighting circuits of Meereen. "Good," Jon said softly, exhaling. "Daenerys deserves a life free of fear. As for Viserys… well, I can't blame him for not trusting easily. He's carried the memory of royal exile for years. I'll see to them once I finish business in Essos."

Thorn set aside that parchment and drew forth another. "The infiltration at the Citadel proceeds. The Faceless Man there—codename Reed—has uncovered multiple documents confirming your parentage, indeed naming you as Jaehaerys Targaryen. The agent also discovered marriage certificates of your mother and father, a set of journals, and a trove of genealogical records. It's all being smuggled to the Red Temple for safe keeping. If you ever need public proof, you can produce it."

Jon's jaw tightened at the mention of his true name. For so long he had thought himself a bastard, but these records reaffirmed that he was in fact a Targaryen with a legitimate claim. "And the agent is unearthing more secrets?"

Thorn tapped the parchment. "Yes. The Citadel is rife with covert machinations. Reed discovered a secret society within the archmaesters, some centuries-old plan to manipulate the realms from the shadows. Letters, black books, ledgers… it suggests a conspiracy to curb magic, unify the realm under their intellectual grip, and seize power subtly. The agent is gathering evidence."

Jon exchanged a glance with Anakin Skywalker's ghostly presence, who stood near the cabin wall. Only Jon could see the Jedi's Force projection, but Thorn was aware of Anakin's existence. Jon frowned. "A secret society in the Citadel, shaping the world for a hundred years or more… that's deeply troubling. If they're actively suppressing magic, that explains why the Force is so little known in Westeros."

Anakin inclined his head. Indeed, we'll need to confront them eventually, his mental voice echoed in Jon's mind. Thorn studied Jon's face, interpreting the silent conversation.

"Jon," she said calmly, "Reed suggests caution. The conspirators are well-placed. Exposing them prematurely might provoke them. Reed can continue gathering data for the time being."

Jon massaged his temples. "Agreed. Let the agent keep prying. But we have to watch them carefully. One day, we'll uproot that plot."

Thorn nodded and flipped to the next missive. "The agent tracking Arya Stark has left Winterfell, following her to King's Landing. Lord Eddard Stark accepted King Robert's offer to become Hand of the King. The agent introduced himself to Arya in secret, but only to teach her basic survival and self-defense, not to recruit her fully. He respects your wish that she not be molded into a Faceless Man. She's far too young, after all."

A surge of protectiveness jolted through Jon. Arya was the sibling he loved above all, and the thought of her dabbling in the lethal arts of assassins set him on edge. His face darkened. "Why did he reveal himself to her? I gave specific orders for her to remain out of that world."

The corner of Thorn's mouth quirked in a subtle expression. "He deemed it necessary to keep her safe in the capital's intrigues. He's only teaching her to handle a knife, read people's intentions, how to vanish if cornered. Nothing more. She is not learning the deeper Faceless Man arts."

Jon exhaled sharply, fighting down a flash of anger. He felt Anakin's calm presence at his shoulder, a reminder to control his emotions. "Very well. I… I can't begrudge Arya a chance at self-preservation. King's Landing is a viper's nest." He forced a rueful smile. "But if I ever sense they're pushing her further, I'll put a stop to it."

Thorn's voice was neutral. "Of course."

Anakin's mental voice brushed Jon's mind. Good. Keep your composure. You need the Faceless Men's network. Don't alienate them over your sister's minor training. Jon, slightly abashed, nodded to himself.

The next piece of intelligence Thorn relayed concerned Jon Arryn's death. "We have compelling evidence that Petyr Baelish and Lysa Arryn conspired to poison Jon Arryn. Agents in the Vale documented the purchase of rare poison, correspondences, and a letter forging operation. The official story in King's Landing is that Jon Arryn died of illness, but we hold proof to the contrary."

Jon's brow furrowed. "Damn. That means the entire impetus for Eddard Stark going south was orchestrated by Baelish. We suspected as much, but having proof is valuable. If Baelish seeks to sow chaos, we must keep an eye on him."

Thorn set the notes aside. "Finally, the houses of the south are gathering arms. Tensions rise around King Robert's stability. Some houses favor the Lannisters, others secretly back Stannis, a few might cling to the memory of Targaryens. All signals a war brewing. The Spy Network is stretched thin gathering names and motives, but we'll soon have a clearer picture."

Jon shook his head. "They can't see the real threat, squabbling over a broken throne. So be it. Let them tear themselves apart. We can't fix everything at once. Anakin's told me to focus on Essos first, and I agree. I'll unify as much of Essos as I can, muster an army, then cross to Westeros. If I tried to intervene now, I'd be dragged into their petty wars."

Thorn made a small bow. "Then my duty is done for now." She glanced at the scattered papers. "Anything else you need, my lord?"

Jon rubbed his eyes wearily. "No. Thank you, Thorn. Keep me informed as new intelligence comes in."

She bowed again and left the cabin, her soft footsteps fading down the narrow corridor. Alone, Jon leaned back in the creaking chair, letting out a long breath. The smell of salt and ship's wood permeated the air. The candle's flame danced, casting flickering shadows on the walls. At the edge of his vision, Anakin's glowing form solidified.

Jon stared into the flame. "So, we have Targaryens safe in a Red Temple, Citadel conspiracies, a potential civil war in the south, a secret alliance with the Faceless Men, and Arya dabbling in assassin arts. Meanwhile, I lead a mercenary army and plan to free slaves in Essos. It's… insane."

Anakin's voice was gentle, echoing in Jon's thoughts. You're one man juggling enormous burdens. But you have powerful allies. Don't let fear paralyze you. You can't be everywhere at once. That's why delegation is key.

Jon chuckled ruefully. "You sound like a maester preaching about management. Or maybe a general from your galaxy's Clone Wars?"

A faint smile graced Anakin's lips. I led armies once. I learned the hard way that trying to micromanage everything is a path to failure. Trust your people. Rely on the Wolf Pack, the Faceless Men, the Red Faith. Let them handle tasks that distract from your core mission.

Jon nodded. "Yes. And that mission is forging unity in Essos, building a force capable of defeating the Long Night."

He raked a hand through his dark curls. "That's enough. I'll push the turmoil in Westeros to the side for now. Essos is my battleground."

He stood, blowing out the candle. The cabin plunged into semi-darkness, lit only by the faint glow from outside. "Let's get some rest. Tomorrow, we sail for Astapor. I sent word ahead about purchasing the Unsullied. If we can claim them, we'll have an elite force that few armies can match."

Anakin's presence shimmered. Yes, but keep caution. The city is built on cruel slavery. It will test your resolve.

Jon's gaze hardened. "I know. I'll do what must be done."

He stepped from the cabin onto the deck, inhaling the briny night air. The Wolf Pack's vessels surrounded them, forming a loose fleet. A thousand men or more afloat in the darkness, loyal to the man who had obliterated a Dothraki horde with lightning. That memory still pricked at Jon's conscience, but he set it aside, focusing on the next step.

Time passed. They sailed southward along the coast, then turned east, navigating trade routes that cut across the Summer Sea. Storms lashed them at times, but the Wolf Pack's discipline kept the fleet intact. Jon spent his days drilling with the men, forging bonds with the officers, planning for the moment they arrived in Slaver's Bay. Thorn advised him on infiltration strategies. Stonewolf ensured morale remained high, though an undercurrent of wary respect for Jon's powers pervaded the ranks. Anakin guided Jon through mental exercises, shaping his Force presence so he could evoke fear when needed, or calm if that was more prudent.

Line break. The ships reached Astapor as the sun dipped behind the horizon, painting the sky in dusky pink and orange. The bay glimmered with shallow waters. Slender spires rose from the city's walls, overshadowed by imposing fortifications. Beyond lay cramped districts of mud-brick houses, overshadowed by the great pyramids that marked the wealth of the slave masters. The stink of filth and cruelty drifted on the wind. Jon stood at the prow, arms folded, cloak flapping.

Anakin's spectral form hovered near. Astapor. The stronghold of the Unsullied. Prepare yourself for horror. These slavers care little for human life.

Jon's lips tightened. "I suspected as much." He spotted a small rowboat approaching their lead ship, a group of Astapori men in tinted scales. They hailed Jon, announcing that the Good Masters—Astapor's ruling slavers—awaited him at the docks.

A short while later, Jon disembarked with a small honor guard from the Wolf Pack—veterans in half-plate, armed with swords and crossbows. Thorn walked at his right, scanning the throngs that crowded near the wharf. Skeletal slaves with hollow eyes labored under the whips of overseers, carrying crates, offloading goods from foreign ships. Some passersby glared at Jon's men, while others looked uninterested. The entire city reeked of oppression.

A small retinue of official-looking men in red-brown robes stood waiting, flanked by muscular guards carrying spears. Their leader was a fleshy man with bulbous eyes, wearing ornate jewelry—gold chains, rings studded with rubies. Missandei, a slender young woman with warm brown skin and curly hair pinned behind her ears, stood at his side, dressed in a threadbare shift. She was evidently a translator. Jon's eyes lingered on her a moment, catching the tired resignation in her expression.

The corpulent slaver spoke in rapid Valyrian, turning to Missandei for translation. She bowed, addressing Jon politely in the Common Tongue: "The mighty Krasnys mo Nakloz welcomes you to Astapor. He says your arrival is timely, for he has the best Unsullied in all the world to sell."

Jon offered a slight nod. He feigned ignorance of Valyrian, though he understood every syllable Krasnys spat. "Tell him I appreciate his hospitality. I wish to inspect the Unsullied before making a purchase."

Krasnys snorted, muttering a vile remark in High Valyrian about "milk-blooded westerners," but Missandei diplomatically omitted that. She repeated only, "He says, 'Of course. Follow me. You'll see the training yards, the breeding pens, everything you need to confirm their quality.'"

Jon schooled his face to neutrality. He motioned for Stonewolf and Thorn to accompany him, leaving the rest of the Wolf Pack near the docks to maintain order. The slavers led them through narrow, sun-baked streets lined with adobe walls. Slaves everywhere toiled under the lash: youths hauling water, old men scrubbing filth from the gutters. The reek of decaying waste clung to the air. Anakin's invisible presence burned with suppressed anger.

They reached a broad courtyard enclosed by high walls. Rows of Unsullied stood at silent attention, each clad in leather cuirasses, spears in hand, faces masked by conical helmets. Their discipline was eerie, their expressions blank. Krasnys gestured with a flourish, spitting more coarse remarks. Missandei translated only the bare essentials: "He presents the Unsullied, each trained from youth, each undefeated in battle."

Jon walked among them, posture stiff, heart twisting at the cruelty behind their creation. The slaver boasted about how these soldiers felt no pain, no mercy, no hesitation. Their training was designed to break them of any humanity. Jon cast Thorn a sidelong look, noticing how her jaw tightened. Even Stonewolf, a hardened mercenary, seemed unsettled.

They passed an area where new recruits were whipped or starved. Krasnys bragged about how unfit boys died swiftly, leaving only the strongest. Jon's stomach churned, fury simmering in his chest. He forced himself to maintain a façade of calm, letting the slaver prattle on in Valyrian about "stupid barbarians." Missandei, trembling slightly, left out his insults.

Eventually, they came upon a row of older Unsullied veterans at attention. Krasnys tapped their armor with a sneer, continuing his rant in Valyrian: "Look at these worthless goats. So docile. I can sell them for triple, and the foreign pig thinks he's buying loyal soldiers. Hah."

Jon almost bared his teeth, but he stayed silent. When Krasnys finished, Missandei said quietly, "He asks how many Unsullied do you desire to purchase."

Jon inhaled slowly, controlling his anger. "All of them. Every Unsullied in Astapor."

Missandei's eyes widened. She hesitated, presumably unsure if she'd heard him right, then relayed the statement in Valyrian. Krasnys froze, letting out a derisive cackle. He unleashed a stream of vulgarities, calling Jon a naïve fool who must not have the gold to buy even a fraction of them. He gloated about how no westerner could possibly afford the entire stock.

Jon said nothing, only gestured to Stonewolf's men. They stepped forward with a pair of heavy chests, laying them open. Inside lay suits of Valyrian steel armor, helmets with that distinctive smoky sheen, bracers inlaid with subtle patterns. The slaver's eyes bulged, his gaze devouring the sight. Valyrian steel was beyond priceless, rarer than any gem. A single sword could buy a castle; a chest of arms could buy a city.

Krasnys fell silent, his greed overriding his scorn. Missandei, trying not to tremble, translated more politely: "He… says that this is indeed a large payment, more than enough. He… wonders if you also want the fortress or the city itself."

Jon allowed a cold, slight smile. "I only want the Unsullied. And her." He nodded toward Missandei, who blinked in shock. "She will come with me."

Krasnys spat a laugh, sneering in Valyrian about worthless translator girls, calling Missandei "expendable." He promptly agreed to throw her in, too intoxicated by the chest of armor. Missandei's expression flickered with hope and fear. She repeated, voice trembling, "He agrees, so long as the trade happens at dawn, on the Walk of Punishment."

Jon dipped his head. "Dawn, then. I expect all the Unsullied assembled. The payment will be yours then." He signaled to Thorn, who closed the chests, leaving only a small portion visible to ensure Krasnys believed. "We will also bring wagons to transport my property."

Krasnys cackled, turning to Missandei with a final snarl in Valyrian: "This westerner is an idiot who'll regret this. But at least we'll get the steel. Let's go." Missandei merely bowed, offering a sanitized translation about concluding the deal. Krasnys waddled off, flanked by his men, and Jon concealed his disgust, letting the vile man depart. His Wolf Pack guards and Stonewolf glared after him, itching to run a blade through his flesh.

Jon turned to Missandei. "Come with us now. You're free."

She stared, tears filling her eyes. "M-my master… he expects me to remain until morning."

Jon's voice lowered. "He gave you to me. He can't claim you. If he wants his steel, he'll do as I say." He gestured gently. "Come."

Missandei hesitated, then nodded, stepping away from the courtyard of Unsullied with hurried steps. Jon led her through the winding streets back toward the docks, Wolf Pack soldiers forming a protective ring. Thorn stayed close, scanning for threats. The city's slaves, seeing a group of well-armed foreigners, cringed aside. The slavers glowered but dared not confront a man who apparently carried enough Valyrian steel to buy an entire army.

At the harbor, the group boarded Jon's flagship, the Summer's Wind. Missandei gaped at the vessel's gleaming timbers and the disciplined Wolf Pack sentries on deck. Jon guided her to a private cabin. Once inside, he offered her a seat, then poured her fresh water from a flask. She drank gratefully, eyes darting in uncertainty.

"You're safe now," Jon said quietly. "You're free, truly. No chains." He gestured to the cabin's simple bed and chest. "We have food, clothing, anything you need. Rest tonight. Tomorrow, the rest of the city will see changes."

Missandei swallowed. "How can I repay you, my lord?"

Jon shook his head. "I'm not your master. But I do have a proposition. You speak multiple languages, yes?"

Her expression steadied. "I do. Common Tongue, High Valyrian, Ghiscari, Dothraki… many tongues. It was my role to interpret for slavers."

Jon nodded. "I have a young Targaryen princess named Daenerys who might need a companion—someone to advise her, help her navigate the world. Would you accept that role if I grant you the freedom to leave anytime you wish?"

Missandei's eyes shone with a flicker of hope. "I… I would. Lady Daenerys… I recall hearing of her from the Red Priests. She's… free as well?"

Jon offered a reassuring smile. "Yes, safe in a temple. I plan to reunite with her eventually. Until then, you can remain here or in another safe location, your choice."

Tears welled up, but she composed herself quickly. "Thank you. I accept."

With that settled, Jon summoned a Wolf Pack quartermaster to provide Missandei with a decent meal, fresh garments, and a place to sleep. The woman departed, leaving Jon alone with Thorn in the dim cabin.

They exchanged a brief look. Thorn, usually impassive, let out a hushed sigh. "You know tomorrow's arrangement with the slaver is precarious. We have your gold—Valyrian steel, rather—on the line. But I sense you have something else in mind."

Jon's lips thinned. "I can't let the Unsullied remain slaves. Once they're mine, I'll free them. That was always the plan. But I need to handle it carefully."

Thorn nodded. "You'll show them the same mercy you showed in Astapor's forging yard?"

Jon's voice carried a note of steel. "We'll see how the Good Masters react. For now, let's gather the Wolf Pack and prepare. Stonewolf and I must finalize the strategy."

––––––––––

That night, Jon convened a quiet meeting with Commander Stonewolf on the Summer's Wind. The Wolf Pack officers gathered around a lantern-lit table in the ship's hold, discussing tactics for the morning's transfer of ownership. Though the exact details remained unseen by the rest of the men, it was clear the Wolf Pack readied themselves for potential violence. Thorn listened in silence, occasionally offering input on infiltration or silent takedowns. Jon stressed that their objective was to protect the innocent and neutralize the slavers.

By dawn, a smoldering red sun rose over Astapor, bathing the city's pink walls in a harsh glow. Jon disembarked with Stonewolf, Thorn, and a carefully chosen force of Wolf Pack elites. They brought a single large wagon carrying the chest of Valyrian steel, disguised under tarps. Missandei walked at Jon's side, expression grave. She knew the fate of her former masters might be decided this day.

They reached the Walk of Punishment, a broad plaza lined with crucified slaves moaning in agony, crows picking at their flesh. Jon fought down revulsion at the cruelty. Krasnys stood at the plaza's far end with dozens of Astapor's slavers, each garbed in finery. Soldiers armed with whips and spears ringed the perimeter. Before them, thousands of Unsullied stood in silent ranks, each holding a spear or shield.

Krasnys sneered at Jon's approach, but also cast a greedy glance at the covered wagon. In Valyrian, he mocked, "The foreign fool actually came. Let's see if he truly has the steel."

Missandei withheld his insult in the translation, only offering, "He asks if you brought payment."

Jon gave a curt nod to Stonewolf's men. They pulled back the tarp, revealing the chest brimming with Valyrian steel gear. Krasnys's eyes bulged anew, drooling over the unimaginable fortune. He gestured for a scribe to note the transfer.

"Now I own the Unsullied," Jon said quietly, glancing at Missandei. She confirmed the statement in High Valyrian. Krasnys handed Jon a ceremonial whip topped with a golden dragon's head—a symbolic rod of authority over the Unsullied.

Taking the whip, Jon felt the hush of the crowd. He stared at the silent ranks of Unsullied, their eyes devoid of hope. He knew this moment was key. He reached into the Force, letting it carry his voice beyond normal range so that every Unsullied could hear him. The Wolf Pack and slaver guards fell silent in confusion as Jon stepped forward, whip in hand.

"You belong to me now," he proclaimed in a resonant voice that the Force amplified across the plaza. "I have bought every Unsullied in Astapor. But I say you are no one's property. You are free. Throw down your spears if you wish, or remain armed if you choose. No more whips. No more slavery. You are men, not objects."

A ripple of astonishment passed through the Unsullied ranks. Krasnys's face went purple with fury, unleashing a torrent of Valyrian curses. Missandei shrank back as he tried to snatch her arm, but Stonewolf's men blocked him. The surrounding slavers erupted in outraged shouts. Some brandished weapons, demanding the foreigners repay them or face death.

Jon continued, ignoring the slavers' clamor. He hoisted the golden whip. "This symbol of tyranny—I destroy it now." With a fierce pull, he tore the whip in half, channeling a jolt of Force to snap the leather and bend the golden dragon's head. The echo of that sudden crack carried through the plaza.

Silence stretched. The Unsullied stared, uncertain. Slowly, from the front row, a commander stepped forward: a tall man with greyish-brown skin and a calm, stoic face. He wore no name, only a simple tag. But many recognized him as Grey Worm, one of the unsung leaders of the cohorts. His voice came out in halting Common Tongue. "We… do not know… freedom. But we follow you?"

Jon turned to face him. "Yes. You owe me nothing, but I ask you to join me. Fight as free men. Help me free the slaves, end tyranny in this city and beyond."

A long pause. The Wolf Pack tensed. The slavers hissed and spat. Krasnys screeched at the Unsullied to kill Jon and retrieve the steel. But the Unsullied did not move. They exchanged uncertain glances. Then Grey Worm dropped his spear. It clattered on the stones. "This one chooses to follow… you." He placed a fist to his chest. "Grey Worm is my name. I speak for many. We fight."

One by one, the Unsullied let their spears tumble or gripped them differently, stepping forward to ring around Jon protectively. A murmur of discontent spread among the slavers. Panic and rage twisted Krasnys's visage. He turned on his soldiers: "Kill them all! The westerner, these traitor slaves—kill them, or I'll feed your children to the dogs!"

A flash of savage intent filled the plaza. Slaver guards leveled spears, crossbows. The Wolf Pack formed up around Jon, Thorn at his side. The Unsullied hefted their weapons again, but this time as free men. With a thunderous roar, the mass of freed soldiers hurled themselves at the slaver ranks. The Wolf Pack joined them, blades flashing.

Chaos erupted. Jon stepped back, letting Grey Worm lead the Unsullied in a frontal charge. The slavers fired arrows, but the unstoppable tide of trained eunuch soldiers advanced, shield locked with shield, spearheads thrusting. Meanwhile, Wolf Pack squads flanked the slaver lines, cutting down whipsmen and overseers. Thorn darted among them, silent as a wraith, dispatching key targets with lethal efficiency. Stonewolf commanded a cavalry detachment that circled behind the city guard's flank, ensuring no escape route.

Astapor's city watch—largely loyal to the Good Masters—tried to rally, but found themselves outmatched by thousands of freed Unsullied who had nothing to lose. The Wolf Pack's discipline complemented the Unsullied's perfect formation. The slavers' lines crumbled under relentless pressure. Screams filled the air; the crackle of flames rose as some slaves, newly emboldened, set about destroying the vile institutions that once chained them.

Near the plaza's center, Krasnys tried to flee, shrieking for guards. Grey Worm intercepted him, spear raised. Jon could not see the final blow, but heard a gurgled cry. He grimly approved. The city's puppet masters needed to fall.

Anakin's voice in Jon's mind: This is the moment you were preparing for. But now is the time to practice the advanced technique I spoke of—Battle Meditation. Enhance your allies' morale, coordination.

Jon inhaled, stepping to the side of the carnage. He closed his eyes, letting the Force flow through him. He pictured the Wolf Pack, the Unsullied, the enslaved populace of Astapor rising, each a glowing spark in the Force. With a deep breath, he cast out a wave of calm resolve, an orchestrated sense of unity. He recalled how Jedi in the old galaxy could bolster entire armies, forging a psychic link that improved cohesion, precision. The Force hummed as he sank into a trance, weaving a net of encouragement and shared purpose.

Across Astapor, Wolf Pack soldiers felt a surge of confidence and synergy, as though they could read each other's movements. The Unsullied's discipline sharpened even further; fear melted away. Freed slaves took courage, grabbing stones or knives, turning on their tormentors. Meanwhile, the slavers felt the creeping despair, a sense that destiny opposed them. Their lines collapsed in the face of unstoppable momentum.

Jon maintained that state, sweat beading on his brow, heart pounding with the strain of controlling so many minds at once. Anakin's guiding presence stabilized him, preventing him from sinking too deep or losing himself. He glimpsed flashes of the battle: Grey Worm leading cohorts up the steps of a grand pyramid, Stonewolf's cavalry smashing the last city guard barricade, Thorn and her assassins silently dispatching pockets of resistance.

Hours blurred into one another. Columns of smoke rose from the slave auction houses, broken chains littered the bloodstained streets. The moans of the wounded mingled with the triumphant cries of the newly freed. By late afternoon, the last pockets of slaver power succumbed. Survivors either fled or surrendered. The Wolf Pack set up triage stations for the injured. Freed slaves rushed to help their comrades, weeping with relief.

Jon emerged from his trance, nearly collapsing from mental fatigue. Thorn supported him, guiding him through the city square. The large red pyramid that once housed the Good Masters stood open, its gaudy decor marred by battle. Freed men hauled down the banners of Astapor's ruling families, tossing them onto bonfires. Grey Worm and the Unsullied tore down the whips, chains, and flags from the fortress walls. Cheers erupted as each symbol of tyranny burned.

As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the devastation, Jon stood with Grey Worm and Stonewolf atop the pyramid's steps, gazing out at the city. Flames flickered among the rooftops where mobs had destroyed slaver compounds. Freedmen roamed the streets, uncertain of the future but clinging to hope. The Wolf Pack patrolled in squads, restoring some semblance of order. A hush settled as Grey Worm raised a tattered banner—once the sigil of the slavers—and flung it onto a roaring brazier. A roar of approval shook Astapor's battered walls.

Jon's knees threatened to buckle again. Anakin's voice was proud but tinged with sorrow: You did it. You freed thousands. But this is only one city. The path ahead is long.

He turned to Grey Worm, who knelt, spear grounded, head bowed. "These Unsullied are free. We will follow you, if you have us. No more slavers, no more brand. Only purpose," Grey Worm said in his halting Common Tongue.

Jon placed a hand on Grey Worm's shoulder. "Thank you, Grey Worm. I'll lead you to free others. We'll forge a realm that doesn't rely on chains. If you ever wish to leave, you're free to go. But I'm honored to have you with me."

A quiet nod. "We follow you."

Stonewolf crossed his arms, scanning the city. "We'll need to set up a provisional authority. Freed slaves will want to govern themselves, or we might install an interim council. Also, the Good Masters' gold and supplies—someone must handle distribution."

Jon rubbed his temples. "Yes. Let's not create a power vacuum that leads to chaos. We'll place local freedmen in charge, with oversight from a few Wolf Pack advisers until they can stand on their own. And the Unsullied can remain to keep peace, or travel with me if that's their choice."

Stonewolf gave a crisp nod. "I'll dispatch teams to the storehouses, secure them, and distribute rations. That'll ease immediate hunger. We'll also salvage the Good Masters' treasury for public coffers."

Thorn appeared from the shadows, voice soft. "It's done. The last pockets of slavers surrendered or fled. The city is ours. What next?"

Jon stared over the burnt-out squares and broken chains. "We rest, rebuild, gather resources. Then we move on. Yunkai or Meereen next, perhaps. One by one, we'll break the chains of Slaver's Bay."

He paused, exhaling shakily. "But for now, let's see if we can feed these people, bury the dead, and heal the wounded. A new dawn for Astapor, or so I hope."

Thorn and Stonewolf saluted. Grey Worm remained kneeling, offering Jon unspoken loyalty. Jon gazed over the freed city, feeling a mix of triumph and fatigue. The howling ghosts of brutality still lurked in every alley, but hope flickered like the torches that lit the night. He thought of Missandei, safe aboard his ship, and the thousands of newly liberated men and women who might find a future beyond whips.

Anakin's presence gave a subtle nudge. This is your first major victory in Essos. Remember the lessons. Mercy and resolve must walk hand in hand.

Jon closed his eyes, centering himself in the Force. "Yes," he whispered. "One city liberated. Many more to go."

Far below, in the battered streets, freed slaves chanted and sang, tearing down every last vestige of the old masters. Grey Worm's Unsullied burned the sigil of Astapor's tyranny from the highest ramparts, casting the city into an uncertain but hopeful new era.