A Requiem of Ash and Stars

CHAPTER 9: TIDES OF AWAKENING

Jon Snow found himself once again hunched over a desk, but this time the polished surface was not in the forbidding halls of Winterfell or aboard the rocking deck of the Summer's Wind. It stood in a repurposed chamber high within Astapor's reformed administrative district—once a part of a cruel slaver's palace, now claimed by liberated citizens. The people of Astapor had commissioned the furnishings as a gift, a way of honoring the man they called their savior. Yet the imposing mahogany desk, carved with designs of vines and leaves (an odd juxtaposition to the sun-baked land beyond), currently served as little more than a prison for Jon's weary hands and bleary eyes.

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. The day was scorching, and he had discarded his heavier clothes for a thin linen tunic, though the golden crest pinned at his collar still marked him as Astapor's liberator and leader. Documents spilled across the desk's surface—ledgers, trade agreements, requests for city improvements, petitions for building repairs, minutes from council meetings. To his reluctant surprise, the act of ruling demanded far more than he had ever imagined. For every city wall he had toppled, he now had a dozen lines of fine print to sign.

High overhead, slitted windows allowed stray beams of sunlight to pierce the gloom. It was midday, yet the air felt stagnant inside these old walls. Anakin Skywalker's spectral form stood to one side—visible and audible only to Jon—arms folded beneath the sleeves of his Jedi robe. The Force ghost watched Jon's labors with a faintly amused expression. Occasionally, a flutter of warm breeze would drift in from the window, ruffling the sheaf of parchments, but did little to relieve the heat.

Jon exhaled as he set aside a particularly dense scroll detailing Astapor's newly formed city guard rotations. "Remind me why I agreed to this," he muttered under his breath.

Anakin allowed a sympathetic smile. "You told the people you would help them rebuild. This is part of it—governance, bureaucracy, the unglamorous side of leadership. Ruling is not all swords and speeches."

Jon gave a short, humorless laugh. "I see that now. I swear, I'd rather face a horde of Dothraki than sign another petition on irrigation canals." He rubbed his temples, blinking away fatigue. "Gods, it's tedious."

Anakin stepped closer, his translucent presence stirring no breeze in the stifling air. "Tedious, but necessary. You're forging something real here, Jon. A city freed from slavers can't just run on good intentions alone. The structure you build now will let you move on without seeing Astapor collapse the moment you depart."

Jon's gaze flicked to a half-open window. Below, he could hear the faint hum of voices from the city. Freed men and women bustled through marketplaces, distributing food and water, holding small gatherings to decide their own futures. As the self-proclaimed leader, Jon had insisted that local voices—former slaves—help shape the city's direction. Yet so many looked to him for final judgment and guidance.

He sighed, picking up another scroll, only to drop it again in exasperation. "I'll finish the rest later. If I stay here, I might never leave. And I must leave. We have bigger battles to fight."

Anakin's expression turned reflective. "We do. But let's be sure Astapor can sustain itself before you go. If the city crumbles the moment you step off its shores, then all your efforts are wasted."

Jon managed a wry grin, pushing back from the desk. "I know. Don't worry, I'll set up a caretaker or council. Then we sail. And I can get back to the real war—reuniting with my Targaryen family, forging alliances to stop the White Walkers, and maybe toppling more tyrants along the way."

He rose, shaking out stiff limbs. Even that small act of movement felt liberating. "Well, that's enough paperwork for me, for now. Let me gather the others."

Time passed as Jon paced the office, tidying the desk so he could at least pretend to have a sense of order. A knock sounded at the door, a young Astapori messenger peering inside with deference. "My lord, your advisors are here."

Jon nodded, squaring his shoulders. "Show them in."

The door swung open, revealing four figures stepping into the chamber: Grey Worm, stoic commander of the Unsullied; Thorn, the silent and deadly Faceless Man assigned to Jon's service; the Red Priestess, whose scarlet robes whispered across the floor; and finally Commander Stonewolf of the Wolf Pack, the mercenary band sworn to Jon's cause. Each bowed or inclined their head in respect.

Jon gestured at the few chairs arrayed near the desk. "Welcome. I appreciate you all coming. I need an update on… well, everything."

They settled in, each wearing expressions of different intensity. Grey Worm remained quiet, back straight, hands clasped behind him. Thorn watched with that hawk-like stillness, her face betraying no emotion. The Red Priestess offered Jon a gentle, encouraging smile, while Stonewolf folded his arms, an air of soldierly pragmatism about him.

Jon took a seat, rummaging among the parchments. "Let's start with you, Thorn. The last I heard, you had new intelligence from our networks in Westeros and Essos."

Thorn inclined her head, drawing a folded sheaf from beneath her cloak. Her voice was low and measured. "Indeed, we've collated fresh reports from King's Landing, the Citadel, and other regions. I'll give you the highlights."

Jon exchanged a glance with Anakin, who hovered silently, and nodded for Thorn to continue.

She glanced at a small note in her hand. "First: Eddard Stark arrived in King's Landing to serve as Hand of the King. He's begun investigating Jon Arryn's death, suspecting foul play. Our watchers confirm that Ned Stark suspects the royal children are not Baratheons at all, but the product of incest between Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime Lannister. He's gathering proof, though the Lannisters have ears everywhere. Tension rises."

Jon felt an involuntary clench in his chest. "Ned's honor might drive him straight into conflict with the Lannisters. Keep me informed. If it escalates, he'll need my help eventually."

Thorn nodded. "We will. Next, Arya Stark is apparently training under a Braavosi swordmaster named Syrio Forel—some call him 'First Sword of Braavos.' Simultaneously, she's receiving covert instruction from the Faceless Man assigned to protect her. He's focusing on survival skills only, as you requested, not turning her into a full assassin."

Jon felt a flicker of relief. "Good. She's still so young. I want her safe, not a cold killer. At least she'll learn how to defend herself in that viper's nest." He let out a soft sigh. "Any sign of the Lannisters suspecting her?"

Thorn shook her head. "No. She's overlooked for now. The real tension focuses on Ned's investigations. Meanwhile, the Small Council's members—Petyr Baelish, Varys, Renly Baratheon, Grand Maester Pycelle—maneuver for advantage. Our agents say Varys might be open to an alliance if you reveal your Targaryen blood. He's pragmatic and might see in you a worthy candidate to unify the realm."

Jon leaned back, tapping fingers on the desk. "I see. Varys the spymaster is no fool. We might use that. Continue."

Thorn consulted another slip. "We have dire news from the Citadel: the Faceless Man investigating there uncovered a secret society among the archmaesters. They have orchestrated numerous tragedies, including the death of Joanna Lannister—ensuring Tyrion's dwarfism by exposing the mother to toxins—poisoning the Mad King, causing his madness, and crippling the North under Rickard Stark. Their aim: to weaken or control powerful houses and shape the realm's future. It's monstrous."

A low growl escaped Jon's throat. Stonewolf scowled, while the Red Priestess wore an expression of resigned sadness. Anakin's presence pulsed with quiet anger. Jon exhaled, mind racing. "I can't let that stand. That's too great a threat to ignore. The Citadel's influence is immense. If they can manipulate events so deeply, they'll threaten everything we're building."

Thorn nodded. "Our agent stands ready to strike. You have but to give the order. We can eliminate the conspirators, sow confusion among the rest, and secure proof for the Red Temple to hold."

Jon stared at his knuckles, wrestling with the moral weight of authorizing a mass assassination. But these archmaesters had committed atrocities. They could not be allowed to persist. "Do it. Remove as many of the secret order as you can. Anyone proven complicit in these crimes. Spare the innocent if possible, but I won't let them hide behind the Citadel's name."

Thorn bowed her head. "Understood. We'll send the evidence to the Red Temple for safekeeping."

Jon inhaled, the room seeming hotter than ever. "Thank you, Thorn. That's enough for now." He turned to the Red Priestess, letting Thorn fade back into stillness.

The priestess's robes shimmered as she inclined forward. "Lord Snow—pardon me—Lord Targaryen, I bring updates from our faithful across Essos. We have established cells in every major free city, not small in number either. Wherever you next turn your gaze, we can open gates, spark uprisings, or sabotage defenses. If it pleases you, conquest will be swift."

Jon gave a half-smile, though his eyes glinted with resolve. "Excellent. We've grown faster than I dared hope. However, before we move on, I must handle personal matters. My Targaryen relatives—Viserys and Daenerys—are sheltered at the Red Temple. I need to see them. Also, I must finalize who governs Astapor in my place. I can't linger here indefinitely."

At that, the priestess's face brightened. "We can expedite your journey back to the temple. Our caravans are prepared. We'll welcome you and your family warmly."

Jon nodded, glancing at the others. "Yes. I only remain uncertain about Astapor's leadership. The freedmen are learning self-rule, but they're not ready for total independence. Not yet."

Stonewolf cleared his throat. "My lord, the Wolf Pack stands at your disposal. We have ten thousand men overall, though only three thousand are ready for battle. The rest handle tasks in the city—guarding storehouses, distributing food, running medical outposts. Everything is finally stable enough that I suspect you could depart with a fraction of our forces and leave a caretaker behind."

Jon narrowed his eyes. "Anakin suggested you might be the right person to remain here, Stonewolf. You command respect, you're fair-minded. The freedmen trust you as my representative."

Stonewolf's jaw tightened. "I'm honored, but you're my liege. If you desire me to manage Astapor, I will. I'd keep half the Wolf Pack with me—about five thousand men—to ensure order. The city's still fragile, but we're seeing real progress. The freedmen's council can handle daily issues, with me guiding them. The rest of the Wolf Pack can sail with you, plus the Unsullied if you wish."

Jon exchanged a glance with Grey Worm. "We also have fifteen thousand Unsullied warriors, thanks to your efforts, Grey Worm."

Grey Worm bowed his head. "We accounted for the city's population. No losses among our forces—your… battle meditation shielded us. We stand at fifteen thousand strong, ready for any war."

Jon tried to keep the awe from his voice. Battle Meditation remained a potent but exhausting technique that had drastically reduced casualties in the fight for Astapor. "Your discipline and skill are what truly kept you safe, Grey Worm. Now, we must decide how many Unsullied remain to help Stonewolf keep peace here, and how many come with me."

Grey Worm's expression stayed impassive. "If you command it, some will stay. The rest yearn to follow you, to free others. We pledge ourselves to your cause."

A hush fell. Jon thought of all the tasks before him: forging alliances with Yunkai, Meereen, the Red Temple, uniting his newly discovered Targaryen blood with the Starks. He glanced at the Red Priestess, at Thorn, at Stonewolf, at Grey Worm. So many loyal souls, each a piece in a grand puzzle. He cleared his throat. "Then here is my plan: Stonewolf remains in Astapor as my governor. He'll have half the Wolf Pack and a suitable contingent of Unsullied—say two thousand—for stability. The rest of the Unsullied, under Grey Worm, join me when we depart for the Red Temple. Thorn and the Red Priestess accompany me as well."

Stonewolf let out a breath of relief. "I'll do my utmost to ensure Astapor thrives. The freedmen's council will elect their own leaders eventually. When they no longer need me, I can rejoin you, if you so desire."

Jon inclined his head. "Precisely. That should keep everything afloat here. Then we move on to the next city—Yunkai or Meereen—eventually. But first, I have to see my relatives. Dany… she might need guidance. Viserys too, though he's less predictable."

He felt Anakin's silent reassurance at his shoulder. Everything was falling into place.

Jon pressed his palms on the desk. "Thank you all. We'll finalize the details with the local council by tomorrow. Grey Worm, gather the Unsullied who will remain versus those who will march. Stonewolf, coordinate supply lines. Thorn, ensure the infiltration plans for the Citadel are set. Red Priestess, coordinate with your acolytes for my arrival at the temple."

With that, each offered a bow or salute, stepping out. The room felt hotter than ever, leaving Jon in need of fresh air. Yet as soon as they were gone, he realized how tired he was. His muscles ached, his mind reeled from a day of negotiations and revelations. He let out a slow breath, sliding the last scroll aside. "Enough. I'll rest. We depart soon."

He stood, extinguished a flickering lantern, and made for the door, letting a guard know he was retiring. The guard saluted, stepping aside. Anakin's ghostly form followed silently, wearing an expression of quiet approval.

Time passed; Jon made his way through corridors previously owned by slavers. Now, freedmen and Wolf Pack sentries mingled in the torchlit halls, nodding respectfully as Jon strode by. The transformations in Astapor had come swiftly: no more whips, no more chains, replaced by a cautious hope. If only the realm's entire future could be changed so cleanly. But Jon suspected the path ahead would be bloodier.

At length, he reached his private chamber—once a plush suite for a cruel master. Now it bore little decoration beyond a sturdy bed, a table, and a trunk for his gear. He entered, unbuckled his sword belt, and set it aside. Then he unlaced his tunic, letting the stifling fabric fall away. Clad only in loose breeches, he collapsed onto the bed. The night air trickled through a narrow window, bringing a hint of coolness.

He thought of all he had learned that day: Ned Stark investigating the royal children, Arya's training under two mentors, the Citadel's vile conspiracy, the infiltration orders he had given, the half of the Wolf Pack soon to remain in Astapor, the other half to follow him. Fifteen thousand Unsullied, an army that could topple half the free cities if used wisely. And somewhere in the distance, the White Walkers biding their time beyond the Wall. He rubbed his eyes, exhaling. One step at a time, he told himself.

He stretched out, letting his exhaustion wash over him. Sleep claimed him in moments, dragging him into deep slumber. But the Force had other plans. In that place where dreams swirl and reality softens, an eerie twilight spread around him, purple and silver swirling in an endless horizon. He felt a presence—someone else was there, though ephemeral. He recognized the breathless hush of a shared dream, the Force bridging consciousnesses across vast distances.

He gazed around, footsteps echoing on a surface that seemed both solid and mist. Soon, through the haze, emerged a slight figure with pale-gold hair. A young woman, eyes wide with uncertainty. Jon's heart quickened. She was exactly as rumored: Daenerys Targaryen.

She halted, trembling. "Who… who are you?" she asked, voice echoing in the dream's hush.

Jon swallowed, stepping closer. "My name is Jon Snow. Though truly, I am… Jaehaerys Targaryen. I'm sorry if that frightens you. I didn't mean to intrude on your dreams."

Daenerys stared, posture tense. She wore a simple shift, her silver hair framing a face caught between fear and curiosity. "How are we meeting like this? Where are we?"

Jon offered a tentative smile. "A shared dream. The Force, as I call it, can connect those who possess it. I sense you have that power too. Dany—may I call you Dany?—I've been searching for you and your brother."

She swallowed hard. "Yes… my brother Viserys is with me at the Red Temple. The priests there said someone might come for us, but… I don't know you." She took a step back. "Why do you claim to be a Targaryen?"

Jon inhaled, gathering courage. "Because my mother was Lyanna Stark, my father Rhaegar Targaryen. Ned Stark hid my identity to protect me from King Robert's wrath. I learned the truth only recently. I stand in Essos, building alliances to stop a great darkness rising in Westeros: the White Walkers. We share a legacy, Daenerys. We're family."

She listened, heart pounding. Jon sensed her skepticism yet also a pull—some intangible bond formed by their shared blood and the Force. Dany's face flickered with warring emotions. "If you're truly family… then why only appear now? And in a dream?"

Jon managed a rueful laugh. "Because I had no idea who I was until recently. The Red Faith, the Faceless Men, old records—they all helped me piece it together. Soon, I plan to meet you and Viserys in person. But for now, the Force showed me a way to connect, to reassure you I mean no harm."

She closed her eyes momentarily, drawing a shaky breath. "I've had so many dreams—nightmares, really. I see a man with two glowing swords—purple and red—fighting a monstrous woman in a land of endless winter. Everything warps around them. And if I try to focus, I end up seeing glimpses of Qarth, a place full of strange relics. One relic is a lightsaber, a blade of light on a mantle. It's… overwhelming. I can't sleep."

Jon listened intently, recalling the visions of lightsabers and the prophesied final battle with the Corpse Queen. "Those are important. They might be prophecies or Force echoes of what's to come. The monstrous woman could be the Corpse Queen, the ancient evil who leads the White Walkers. The swords… might be illusions of me or another Force user battling her. Qarth might hold a crucial artifact we need."

Dany's lips parted. "So it's real? I'm not mad?"

Jon's expression softened. "No madness, Dany. You're force-sensitive. Your mind is tuning into these cosmic ripples. But without guidance, it feels like chaos. That's why I want to help you, and Viserys too if he's open to it. We can learn to control these powers, not let them consume us."

She studied him warily. "Viserys… he's suspicious of everyone. He can't stand the idea of someone else claiming the throne. But if you can help him harness his nightmares, maybe… maybe he'll listen."

Jon nodded. "I'll do what I can. I'm not your enemy. I want House Targaryen united under a better cause—saving this world from an endless night. If you'll trust me enough to wait, I'll come to the Red Temple soon. We can talk freely then."

She hesitated, conflict in her eyes. "I… I feel compelled to trust you, though I barely know you. Something about you feels… right. The Red Priests call you the Liberator, the Wolf-Dragon. They say you freed Astapor. Is that true?"

Jon gave a faint smile. "Yes, with an army of Unsullied and the Wolf Pack mercenaries. But I prefer we not dwell on titles. Yes, I freed thousands of slaves. I plan to keep going until we have a force strong enough to face any threat. Including the White Walkers, or the lords of Westeros who might oppose us."

She touched her own arm, swallowing. "Then I'll… I'll wait. Though I'm scared. My brother and I have had to run so many times. We've been sold, betrayed. I don't know what it means to be safe."

Jon's gaze softened. "You're safe at the Red Temple for now. And soon, you'll be safer with me. I promise. I'll show you how to calm these visions, how to wield the Force in harmony rather than fear. We're Targaryens, after all—our blood resonates with power. But we must guide it wisely."

She nodded slowly, tears glinting. "All right, Jaehaerys Targaryen." The name felt awkward on her lips, but a flicker of acceptance touched her voice. "I'll look for you."

Jon smiled, relief flooding him. "Thank you, Daenerys. Before this dream ends… is there anything else you want to ask?"

Dany bit her lip, eyes darting. "That monstrous woman in the vision—are you sure it's real? Could it just be a symbol?"

Jon's mouth set in a grim line. "It's real. The Corpse Queen is an ancient enemy who once brought endless winter to the realm. She's stirring again. She wields powers akin to the Force, in a twisted form. We must be ready."

Daenerys inhaled shakily. "Then I'll do what I must. And you… you said your father was Rhaegar. Did he speak of me? I was just a babe when all fell apart."

Jon's expression clouded. "I never knew him, I'm afraid. I only have scattered accounts. But I think he'd be proud to see you both alive. Perhaps we can uncover more about him together."

A fragile smile touched her lips. "Yes… together. Thank you, Jon. Or Jaehaerys. I appreciate this."

The swirling dreamscape brightened, purple and silver hues turning luminous. Jon felt the Force's tug, the connection slipping away. "Rest, Dany. I'll see you in the waking world soon."

She nodded, stepping back as the mists thickened around her. "Good night, nephew," she whispered, voice echoing. "Until we meet."

And in a rush of shifting colors, the dream collapsed, leaving darkness behind.

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Jon woke with a sharp inhale, heart pounding. Early dawn light filtered through the narrow window, drawing lines across the bed. He lay still, mind racing with the memory of Daenerys's face. She was indeed force-sensitive, her visions a parallel to his own. And Viserys too held that spark. This changed everything. Anakin's presence flickered near, calm but intent.

Anakin spoke gently in Jon's mind. It's true, then. She and Viserys share your powers. That might be an asset if nurtured properly, or a danger if left untamed.

Jon sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "We'll see. I sense Daenerys wants to trust me. Viserys might be harder. But either way, I have to meet them soon at the Red Temple."

He swung his legs off the bed, the stone floor cool against his feet. Outside, Astapor awoke: the sound of hawkers calling, carts rattling, laborers chatting in the alley. Freedmen living a new dawn. Jon felt a surge of determination. He would finalize the city's governance, then depart with the majority of his forces, heading for the Red Temple to greet his Targaryen kin in person.

He dressed swiftly, buckling on a light leather vest, practical for the heat. The sword Northwatch hung at his hip, a reminder of his lethal skill but also the vow to protect. Soon, he would gather Stonewolf, Grey Worm, Thorn, and the local freedmen council to finalize the transition. Then, with Astapor stable, he could sail—yes, sail to the temple, or travel by land with some of his armies. He hadn't decided, but any route would do.

As he stepped from his chamber, the sun climbed over the city's pinkish walls, bathing the spires and rooftops in a warm glow. Freed slaves bustled below, forging a new life. The Wolf Pack patrolled with a friendly, guiding presence, not oppressing but cooperating. Jon's heart lifted at the sight: Astapor might truly stand on its own, a beacon of freedom in Slaver's Bay. And soon, with more conquests, the entire region might be liberated from chains.

But overshadowing all was the silent threat stirring in Westeros' north—White Walkers, the Corpse Queen, an apocalyptic tide. The politics of King's Landing, the Citadel conspiracies, the Targaryen heritage… all these threads converged around Jon. Yet as he strode through the halls, greeting guards with a nod, he felt only calm purpose, guided by Anakin's paternal aura and the Force's quiet hum.

He paused at a balcony overlooking Astapor's main square. People bustled around a central fountain, newly repaired, collecting fresh water. Children laughed, old men shared stories, merchants sold wares. This city had once been a den of cruelty. Now, it shimmered with hope. Jon let out a slow breath.

"You see?" came Anakin's voice in his thoughts. This is the fruit of your labor. Once you leave, the city will stand as proof that your approach—freeing the oppressed, forging alliances—can work.

Jon gave a small nod. "Yes, it's worth all the paperwork in the world. But the job is far from done."

He turned away, heading for the day's duties, a swirl of excitement and resolve in his chest. By nightfall, he would have a plan set for his departure. And soon after, he would stand face-to-face with Daenerys Targaryen in the waking realm, forging a bond that might reshape the fate of Westeros.

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The day went by in a flurry of final administrative tasks. Jon met with the freedmen's council, explaining that Stonewolf would remain as governor on Jon's behalf, overseeing broad policy while the council managed daily issues. The council members, each a once-enslaved citizen, showed gratitude for Stonewolf's fairness. The Wolf Pack commander, for his part, pledged to empower them rather than rule like a slaver. In time, the city might elect its own leaders fully.

Jon hammered out details of trade pacts, ensuring incoming caravans with medical supplies, cloth, and seeds. Freed slaves with farming knowledge would revitalize Astapor's outskirts. He also addressed a minor crisis about broken aqueduct sections, ordering repairs. By noon, sweat beaded his forehead, exhaustion pulling at him. Yet he persevered, wanting no loose ends.

Grey Worm arrived with a thorough roster: two thousand Unsullied to remain under Stonewolf's command, aiding city defense, while thirteen thousand would be ready to march with Jon. The calm, unwavering loyalty in Grey Worm's voice bolstered Jon's confidence. They truly believed in his cause.

The Red Priestess, too, came with lists of her acolytes scattered in Essos. She assured Jon that if he marched east to Yunkai or Meereen, the stage was set for quick liberation, thanks to embedded Red Faith cells. Jon smiled, but reaffirmed that he needed to visit the temple first. The priestess bowed, acknowledging his right to family matters.

By late afternoon, the main tasks concluded. Jon found a quiet moment in his office—sunrays filtering in dusty golden beams. Anakin's ghost stood beside him, a gentle grin touching the Jedi's ghostly lips. "Well done," he murmured. "It's almost time for you to rest and then depart."

Jon exhaled. "Yes. One last meeting with Stonewolf, Grey Worm, Thorn, and the council. Then I can sleep. Tomorrow, we set sail or ride." He glanced at the stack of papers. "Never let me forget how unromantic ruling can be."

Anakin's chuckle warmed the air. "I promise, next time you're about to topple a city, I'll remind you that you're also toppling yourself into reams of parchment."

Jon grimaced, half-laughing. "Fair." He stood, stretching limbs grown stiff. "All right, let's do this."

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A final gathering took place in a large hall at the pyramid's base—once decorated with statues of slavers but now stripped bare, repurposed into a communal space. Jon sat at a wide table with Stonewolf to his right, Grey Worm to his left, the freedmen council arrayed on benches. Thorn stood near a column, silent, while the Red Priestess lingered behind, a watchful presence. Torches along the walls cast shifting shadows.

Jon spoke clearly, walking them through the plan: he would leave at sunrise with the majority of the Unsullied and half the Wolf Pack. Stonewolf would remain as governor, assisted by two thousand Unsullied. The Freedmen Council would handle daily governance, eventually electing a permanent council. Stonewolf's men would only step in if trouble arose or if external foes threatened.

The Freedmen Council's leader, a once-enslaved teacher named Jalor, bowed. "We accept your terms, Lord Snow—pardon, Lord Targaryen. You freed us, and we trust your choice. We vow to build a just city. Thank you."

Jon nodded, expression sober. "You owe me nothing, Jalor. Just lead with compassion, so Astapor remains free. Stonewolf will guide you if needed, but I want this city to stand on its own feet."

Stonewolf thumped a fist to his chest. "I swear I'll not usurp the council. My men will defend the city from outside threats, but day-to-day decisions remain yours, Freedmen."

Grey Worm stepped forward, posture rigid. "Two thousand Unsullied remain. They vow loyalty to Stonewolf. The rest follow Jon Snow, or Jaehaerys Targaryen, to free more cities."

A ripple of anticipation passed through the hall. The Freedmen Council members smiled, relief in their eyes. Jalor rose again. "Then we are set. May you succeed in freeing others. Astapor will never forget you."

Jon stood, clasping the teacher's hand. "Nor I you. Thank you." With that, the meeting concluded. People filed out with determined steps, each knowing the dawn brought a new chapter.

As the hall emptied, Thorn approached Jon, voice low. "You said tomorrow, you depart. My preparations for the Citadel infiltration are set. Once you're gone, we'll strike, remove the corrupt Maesters. Evidence goes to the Red Temple."

Jon nodded. "Proceed. And if you find any sign of deeper conspiracies, let me know. I suspect they've meddled in more corners of the realm than we imagine."

Thorn bowed, melting away into the shadows.

Stonewolf lingered, exchanging a final salute. "May the Seven, or your Force, guide you. I'll keep Astapor strong in your absence."

Jon clasped his forearm. "You have my trust. Thank you, Stonewolf."

Lastly, Grey Worm stood near the door, resolute. "Tomorrow, we march or sail?"

Jon exhaled. "We sail. The Wolf Pack ships are enough to ferry us all. Prepare the men. We'll leave with the tide."

Grey Worm dipped his head. "Yes, my lord."

The hall cleared, leaving Jon with the Red Priestess. She regarded him with eyes that gleamed in torchlight. "We shall be ready to guide you to the temple. Your aunt and uncle await."

Jon mustered a tired smile. "I'm anxious to meet them. Thank you, truly."

She gave a gentle nod and departed, robe whispering across the stones. Jon finally found himself alone under the flickering torches. Exhaustion weighed on his shoulders, but also a deep sense of accomplishment. He had done it. Astapor was set on a stable path, he had an army of thousands, the infiltration of the Citadel was in motion, and soon he would reunite with Targaryen kin.

Anakin hovered beside him, ephemeral. Well done, Jon. Now, rest. Tomorrow brings more challenges.

Jon closed his eyes a moment, letting relief fill him. "Yes. Rest."

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He climbed back to his quarters, too weary for another conversation. The city outside quieted under star-strewn skies, the day's heat subsiding into a faint breeze. Inside his chamber, he found a simple meal left by a servant—flatbread, fruit, a jug of water. He ate hungrily, barely tasting. Then he shed his clothes and crawled into bed, sighing in relief as the mattress enveloped his aching body.

He closed his eyes, thoughts drifting to Daenerys. The dream-encounter lingered in his mind, her uncertain but hopeful smile. Tomorrow, or soon, he'd see her in reality. He prayed she'd trust him enough to unite their powers. She and Viserys both had untapped Force potential. If harnessed properly, they might help him quell the looming chaos in Westeros and beyond. If they refused… well, he'd cross that bridge later.

Slowly, the swirl of thoughts dimmed, and he surrendered to the lull of slumber.

What awaited him this time was no dream of meeting Daenerys—he'd already done that. Instead, he slept deeply, drifting in the black velvet of exhaustion. No visions intruded, no cosmic call pulled him from rest. Hours passed in sweet oblivion.

But near dawn, faint wisps of color teased his subconscious. A swirl of red and purple, reminiscent of the dreamscape with Daenerys. He felt a tug in the Force—like a distant echo. Yet this time, it remained fleeting. He half-stirred, but the dream faded. Something or someone had tried to reach him, or so he suspected. Perhaps Viserys, uncertain. Or maybe a flicker of the Many-Faced God testing him. He wasn't sure.

When the first light of morning brushed the horizon, a gentle knock at the door woke him. He sat up, blinking the remnants of sleep from his eyes. The time had come. He rose, dressed quickly in dark breeches and a light linen shirt, buckling on Northwatch at his hip, and pulling on soft leather boots. The city had not grown any cooler overnight, but a faint breeze wafted through the window, carrying scents of the sea. The Wolf Pack and Unsullied would be assembling at the docks. He would lead them out of Astapor, forging onward.

He spared a moment to glance in a small mirror, seeing a man who seemed older than his years—lines of responsibility etching his brow. Jaehaerys Targaryen, he thought wryly, still unused to the name. Then he turned away, pushing the door open.

The corridor bustled with final preparations. Guards carried crates of provisions, scribes double-checked shipping manifests. Freedmen lined the walls, bowing as Jon passed, gratitude shining in their eyes. He returned their nods, a pang of fondness in his chest. He truly hoped Stonewolf and the Freedmen Council could safeguard Astapor's future.

He made his way outside, emerging onto a terrace that overlooked the city. Morning light bathed the pinkish brick buildings and the broad square where he had once proclaimed freedom. Now that square teemed with Unsullied in neat rows, Wolf Pack squads interspersed. Stonewolf stood at the forefront, conferring with Grey Worm. Down the slope, the harbors spread wide, filled with ships—some belonging to the Wolf Pack, others hired or repurposed from slaver fleets. They flew Jon's chosen banner: a direwolf merged with a dragon motif, symbolizing House Stark and House Targaryen entwined.

Thorn waited near the terrace's steps. She nodded as Jon approached. "All is ready. The men wait on your final word."

Jon drew a breath, his heart thumping with a mixture of excitement and solemn awareness. "Let's not keep them waiting, then."

Together, they descended to the square. As Jon stepped among the ranks, a hush fell. Thousands of Unsullied stood at crisp attention, silent as statues. Wolf Pack mercenaries wore determined expressions, many having become fervent believers in Jon after witnessing his feats. Stonewolf stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword.

Jon surveyed the crowd, letting the Force guide his voice so all might hear clearly. "People of Astapor," he began, "and my loyal soldiers, I speak to you now, on the eve of our departure. We came here to break chains, to end the cruelty that choked this city. We have succeeded, thanks to your courage and unity. But our work doesn't end with Astapor. I must move on, to free more cities if need be, and ultimately face the greater threats looming over this world."

A murmur rippled through the freed citizens who had gathered at the square's edges to watch. Jon raised a hand. "Stonewolf remains behind, commanding part of the Wolf Pack and a contingent of Unsullied. Together with the Freedmen Council, they will ensure Astapor grows into a beacon of freedom. Treat each other with respect, rebuild your homes, and shape your destiny. Should the city face danger, I'll return if called."

He paused, scanning the faces. Thorn stood off to one side, Grey Worm near the Unsullied, Stonewolf close by. "To those who follow me, we march on. I cannot promise the path will be easy. We may face wars, conspiracies, even horrors beyond mortal ken. But stand firm, and we shall prevail. For now, we sail with the tide. Let Astapor's new dawn stand as proof that tyranny can be overthrown."

Cheers rose from the freed slaves, while the soldiers pounded weapons against shields in salute. Jon kept his expression calm, though inside he felt a swirl of pride and apprehension. He turned to Stonewolf, clasping his forearm. "I leave this city in your keeping. Guard it well."

Stonewolf bowed. "I'll not fail you, my lord. Send word if you have further instructions."

Jon then faced Grey Worm, who stood rigid as ever. "As for you and the thirteen thousand Unsullied, you come with me. We'll be the spearpoint of my forces."

Grey Worm bowed his head. "We obey."

Jon nodded. "Then let's go." He strode toward the harbor road, the mass of Unsullied forming into columns behind him, Wolf Pack units following. The Freedmen parted to let them pass, many kneeling in reverence. Some pressed small tokens or offered blessings, tears glistening. Jon acknowledged them with kind words or gentle touches, feeling humbled by their devotion.

Line break.

The procession made its way through Astapor's winding streets, eventually reaching the docks. There, a flotilla of ships waited, sails adorned with House Stark–Targaryen hybrid sigils. The Wolf Pack had done well securing a fleet large enough for so many Unsullied. Crates of supplies were already loaded, and sailors scurried about finalizing rigging. Jon paused at the dock, letting Grey Worm's cohorts file onto assigned vessels, while Wolf Pack squads boarded others. The Red Priestess and Thorn accompanied Jon to the flagship, the Summer's Wind—a vessel that once ferried him across Essos's seas. Now it would bear him to the next chapter.

Stonewolf stood at the wharf, arms folded, watching with a mix of pride and sadness. "Farewell, my lord," he said as Jon paused at the gangplank. "Return triumphant."

Jon gripped his arm in a final shake. "Until we meet again, Stonewolf. Take care of Astapor."

Stonewolf nodded, stepping back. Jon ascended the gangplank, the Red Priestess and Thorn on his heels. Deckhands saluted, setting sails as the anchor was weighed. Ropes were cast off, and the Summer's Wind drifted from the pier. The rest of the fleet followed, a grand armada launching from Astapor's harbor. Onshore, crowds cheered, waving scraps of cloth, the newly minted emblem of their city's freedom. Jon stood near the prow, wind tousling his hair, a swirl of emotions coursing through him.

He glanced sidelong at Thorn, who gazed out at the receding city with her usual impassive calm. "You'll soon dispatch the infiltration orders for the Citadel?" he asked.

She inclined her head. "Yes. Our ravens wait in the hold. The moment we clear the coast, I'll send them. The operation will commence within days."

Jon's lips pressed into a firm line. "I regret the bloodshed, but they left us no choice."

Thorn said nothing, only offered a small nod. The Red Priestess stepped forward, ginger hair lifting in the breeze. "My lord, when we land, we'll have caravans ready. The temple is some distance inland, but you'll find your kin there, safe."

Jon forced a smile. "Thank you. That's my immediate priority."

Line break.

Over the next days, the fleet navigated along Slaver's Bay, then westward toward the main shipping routes. The sea was mostly calm, though occasional storms tested the sailors. The Unsullied adapted to ship life with rigid discipline, crowding decks in neat ranks or sleeping below in cramped quarters. The Wolf Pack soldiers mingled with them, forging mutual respect. Jon spent evenings on the Summer's Wind's foredeck, watching sunsets, conferring with Grey Worm about future campaigns, or conversing with the Red Priestess about the expansions of the Red Faith in Essos.

Thorn remained ever-watchful, ensuring no sabotage threatened the voyage. Occasionally, Jon glimpsed her slipping into shadows or stepping behind crates, presumably checking corners for stowaways. Anakin, invisible to all but Jon, sometimes teased that Thorn and he should compare stealth techniques. Jon would only smirk, mindful that Anakin's Force stealth was of a different kind.

Every night, Jon collapsed into his cabin bunk, hoping for dreamless sleep. But his mind overflowed with looming plans: confronting the Citadel's secret order, guiding Eddard from afar, reuniting with Daenerys and Viserys, forging a stable alliance. The war against the White Walkers pressed at the back of his thoughts, a glacial menace overshadowing mortal politics. He reminded himself daily that all these worldly conquests served the ultimate goal: uniting the living to face death's champion.

Line break.

At last, a week or more of sailing brought them to a lesser-known port maintained by the Red Faith, a private harbor rarely used by outsiders. The sunrise revealed a rugged coastline, with jagged cliffs and a narrow bay. Red-robed priests stood on the docks, waving signals. The Summer's Wind and its escort slipped into the cove, dropping anchors. Longboats ferried Unsullied and Wolf Pack to shore in organized waves. Jon disembarked among the first, boots crunching on stony sand.

A short distance inland, a broad road led toward rolling plains and eventually to the Red Temple's stronghold—Jon glimpsed its towers in the distance. The ground here bore patches of arid grass, dotted with patches of hardy shrubs. The Red Priestess, guiding Jon, explained that caravans awaited. Grey Worm ordered the Unsullied to set camp near the shoreline, while a smaller group accompanied Jon on the ride to the temple. The Wolf Pack took defensive positions, scanning for potential threats.

Jon mounted a sturdy desert horse provided by the Red Priests. Thorn and the Red Priestess flanked him, while a handful of Unsullied rode behind, awkward in the saddle but determined. The journey inland took the better part of a day under the relentless sun. They passed scattered villages loyal to the Red Faith, each offering friendly waves and gifts of water. Jon's mind churned with anticipation. Soon, he would see Daenerys in the flesh. Possibly Viserys too.

He recalled the dream—her wide eyes, the swirl of purple and red. Let her greet me warmly, he prayed. We can't afford tension or suspicion now.

Line break.

By dusk, the travelers crested a ridge that overlooked a sprawling complex of crimson stone: the head temple of the Lord of Light in this region. Flame-shaped spires jutted into the sky, torches lining the walls. A gentle glow suffused the place, as though holy fire guided it from within. Red-robed acolytes hurried to meet Jon's party at the gates, bowing reverently.

They ushered Jon and his retinue through a grand courtyard, where braziers crackled, casting flickering shadows on pillars etched with R'hllor's sigil. Under a tall archway, a senior Red Priest approached, greeting Jon with a deep bow. "Welcome, Liberator. The Lord of Light shines on your arrival. Your kin wait within."

Jon inhaled, heart thumping. "Then let's go."

They wound through colonnades and corridors lit by glowing sconces. Everywhere, acolytes paused to gaze at Jon, some murmuring prayers or thanks. Thorn strode silently at his flank, scanning every corner. Eventually, they reached a pair of ornate doors guarded by two priests. At a nod from the senior priest, the doors opened, revealing a modest antechamber furnished with cushions and low tables. Jon glimpsed a slight figure with pale-gold hair seated at one side, another figure pacing restlessly.

The senior priest announced Jon, bowing out. Thorn stayed by the entrance, letting Jon step forward alone. The pair inside turned at his approach: a young woman with anxious violet eyes—Daenerys—and a man older by a few years, with a tense posture and narrow face—Viserys Targaryen. Jon's breath caught. He recognized them from glimpses and descriptions. Daenerys, in a plain but clean gown, Viserys wearing a threadbare tunic, each bearing that hallmark silver-blond Targaryen hair. The tension in the air was palpable.

Viserys's eyes flared with suspicion. "You're the one they say is a Targaryen? Some bastard from the North?" He spat the words, fists clenched.

Daenerys, by contrast, looked uncertain but stepped forward, eyes flicking to Jon's face. "Y-you're real," she whispered. "Your face… from the dream."

Jon forced a gentle smile, focusing on Dany first. "It's good to meet you properly, Daenerys. I'm Jon Snow, yes, but truly Jaehaerys Targaryen, if the records hold. Rhaegar's son."

Viserys let out a low snort. "Records can be forged. You claim Targaryen blood, but I see no proof." He eyed Jon's sword and attire with a sneer. "And you come with an army, so they say. Planning to dethrone me as rightful heir?"

Jon's jaw tightened. "I'm not your enemy, Viserys. I come to unite our house and harness the powers we share. The Red Faith has sheltered you from assassins. But the realm's threats demand we stand together."

Daenerys placed a calming hand on Viserys's arm. He huffed, glaring away, though he didn't pull free. She turned to Jon, eyes full of questions. "You told me we share the Force… that you can help me control these visions?"

Jon nodded, glancing briefly at Anakin's invisible form. "Yes, both you and Viserys likely have that gift. I can train you, or at least guide you. We face a great danger in the White Walkers. The Force can help us meet it."

Viserys scoffed again, though less harshly. "And what if I refuse your 'guidance'? Are you going to kill me, like Robert would have?"

Jon held his gaze. "I'd do no such thing. I'd prefer we stand as allies, cousins in blood. But if you threaten to sabotage everything… I'll defend my cause. I hope it won't come to that."

A brittle tension crackled. Daenerys spoke softly, "Viserys, we've been hidden for so long. Jon… Jaehaerys… parted the veil with his dream. I trust him enough to listen. Shouldn't we at least hear him out?"

Viserys's lips thinned, but he sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Fine. We'll talk. But if he dares claim the Iron Throne for himself—"

Jon lifted a hand. "Peace. The throne means little if the realm is swallowed by endless night. Let's focus on survival first. Then we can settle who sits where."

Daenerys managed a small smile. "That's fair. And… your eyes. They're so earnest. I feel I can trust you, even though it's overwhelming." She hesitated, cheeks coloring slightly. "Would you… show me some small skill with the Force? Something to prove you're not a fraud?"

Jon nodded. "Of course."

He closed his eyes, inhaling. He let the Force swirl in him, then lifted a single cup from a nearby table without touching it. It glided into the air, drifting toward Daenerys. She gasped, and even Viserys's scowl twitched. The cup hovered before her for a heartbeat, then Jon eased it gently back onto the table.

Daenerys looked awed, pressing a hand to her mouth. "It's real, then."

Jon sighed with relief. "It is. You can learn to do that and more, channeling your visions into clarity instead of torment. Will you let me help?"

She exhaled slowly. "Yes. I think so."

Viserys folded his arms. "I'll observe, for now. If this leads anywhere beneficial, I'll consider it." His voice held grudging acceptance. "But don't expect me to kneel to you."

Jon gave a tight smile. "I don't need your kneeling, only cooperation. The White Walkers will require every ounce of power we can muster. After we deal with that, we can see who deserves the throne."

A subtle hush fell. Daenerys sank into a cushion, shoulders sagging in relief. Viserys paced, tension radiating from him, but at least not lunging or spitting insults. Jon felt a wave of cautious optimism. They were not allied wholeheartedly, but they had a foothold. Dany seemed open-minded, and Viserys had not stormed out.

Jon took a seat on a cushioned bench, meeting their gazes one at a time. "For now, rest easy. You're safe here. I'll remain in the temple for a short time, gather resources, finalize my next moves. If you want training, I can begin soon. Also, I suspect you might each dream. If so, share them with me. It might hold crucial prophecy."

Daenerys nodded. Viserys gave a curt inclination of the head. The tension in the air lingered, but the promise of collaboration glimmered. Jon's heart felt lighter, recalling how Dany had smiled in the dream. He'd reached her. Now, the real challenge began: forging a bond strong enough to face the storms ahead.

Line break.

That night, in a chamber provided by the Red Priests, Jon finally lay down to sleep, a swirl of thoughts pressing at him. Daenerys had proven kind, hopeful. Viserys teetered between resentment and curiosity. The Wolf Pack and Unsullied were camped beyond the temple walls, well-supplied. Meanwhile, infiltration orders had been dispatched to the Citadel. Eddard Stark worked in King's Landing, Arya trained with hidden watchers, the secret order of archmaesters would soon face doom. So many pieces moved at once.

As he drifted off, he wondered if he'd share another dream with Daenerys. But nothing came, only deep slumber. He needed the rest.

In the morning, the next stage of his grand plan would unfold. For now, he slept, mind free of nightmares, confident that each step guided him closer to unifying the living—Stark, Targaryen, Red Faith, Freed Freedmen, Unsullied, Wolf Pack, Faceless Men, all forging a chain no slaver or corpse queen could break. And so Chapter 9 ended in the hush of a temple overshadowed by a thousand flickering flames, a prelude to the greater blaze that soon would sweep the world.