A Requiem of Ash and Stars

CHAPTER 4: REVELATIONS AT SEA

A faint drizzle dampened the deck of the Leviathan as it carved through gray waters under a sky streaked with thin clouds. Several weeks had passed since the ship's departure from White Harbor, bearing Jon Snow, Oberyn Martell, Ellaria Sand, Obara Sand, and the rest of the chosen crew toward the ruined lands of Valyria. The morning sun was little more than a wan glow beyond the horizon, promising a day of swells and gusting winds. Yet the atmosphere belowdecks was warm with camaraderie, fueled by ale and the prospect of an imminent arrival at the fabled—and dreaded—destination.

Jon Snow sat at a rough-hewn table in one of the ship's larger cabins, which had been converted into a makeshift common area. Lantern light flickered on the walls, illuminating Oberyn's animated face and the sly half-smiles of Ellaria and Obara. A pitcher of strong wine rested at the center of the table, beside a half-finished loaf of bread, some dried meat, and a hunk of pungent cheese. Empty cups and spilled droplets of liquor hinted at the night's revelry. Jon found himself laughing more freely than he ever had in Winterfell. Perhaps it was the wine or the lingering euphoria of finding companions who accepted him. Or perhaps it was something deeper—an acknowledgment that, amid the gloom of this voyage, life still pulsed with joy.

Anakin's ghostly presence, visible and audible only to Jon, hovered near the wall, arms folded in a posture of faint amusement. Though his body no longer lived, Anakin's spirit radiated a paternal warmth. Over the past weeks, Jon had gradually grown more at ease with Anakin's silent watchfulness, though he remained vigilant not to let others see him speaking to thin air. The Force ghost rarely made appearances when the crew was around, unless Jon summoned him, and even then, Anakin chose his moments carefully.

Oberyn Martell lounged at the table, leaning forward with a roguish grin on his lips. He had been regaling them with a tale of one of his earlier exploits—something about a duel in the deserts of Dorne, where he fought a formidable swordsman who claimed to have the blood of dragons. "I was sure the man was mad," Oberyn said, swirling the last mouthful of wine in his cup. "But madmen sometimes fight as though they've no fear of death. They can be the most dangerous opponents. Imagine him, standing there, spouting nonsense about an ancient Targaryen wellspring in his veins. Yet his swordsmanship was no nonsense at all."

Ellaria Sand, seated on Oberyn's left, wore a look of amusement. "You told me once that he practically foamed at the mouth shouting, 'Dracarys!' as if to breathe fire." She arched an eyebrow at Jon, who sat across from them. "It seems Dorne has its fair share of colorful characters. And Oberyn collects them like a child collecting exotic shells at the beach."

Obara Sand, leaning back with her boots on a bench, snorted. She had been flipping a small throwing knife between her fingers—an act of casual defiance that made the more timid crew members keep their distance. "Father bested him, of course. The man's delusions didn't save him from reality."

Oberyn shrugged with theatrical modesty. "He was quite skilled. And as I was saying…" He paused, meeting Jon's eyes. "The day was scorching. My armor felt as if it might melt to my skin. His blade danced in the heat waves like a viper's tongue. One moment, I thought I had him cornered—next moment, he nearly took my ear." His grin broadened. "It would have been a shame if I had lost my handsome profile."

The table erupted in laughter. Jon found it easy to join in, even though a small part of him wondered what it would feel like to be so sure of one's place in the world. Oberyn's confidence was unwavering, a force of its own that radiated in the tight quarters of the ship's lower deck. And yet, in their short time together, Oberyn, Ellaria, and Obara had shown Jon more genuine acceptance than he'd felt in Winterfell his entire life. The feigned superiority or pity he'd grown used to was absent here. They saw him as an equal, or at least as a man worthy of sharing their table.

The conversation continued, Oberyn's tale winding toward its climax: the final exchange of the duel in Dorne, where he supposedly disarmed the mad swordsman with a flourish, only to find a hidden dagger at his throat. Jon leaned in, sipping from his own cup of mild ale, half-lost in the vivid images Oberyn conjured. But just as Oberyn reached the moment of telling how he'd outwitted that hidden dagger, Jon felt it—like a ripple in still water, or a gust of cold wind brushing the nape of his neck. A sudden, disquieting disturbance in the Force.

His smile vanished. The hair on his arms prickled. Across the room, Anakin straightened, turning his head sharply as if looking through the wooden walls. The Force ghost's eyes narrowed. Jon caught his breath. Something was wrong—very wrong.

Oberyn paused mid-sentence, noticing the abrupt change in Jon's expression. "Jon?" he said, blinking. "Are you all right, my friend?"

Ellaria frowned in concern, and Obara swung her feet off the bench, setting them on the deck boards. Jon barely heard them. He stood, the bench scraping beneath him. Without explaining, he turned toward the narrow corridor that led to the stairs. The ship felt different beneath his feet—less stable. A tremor of tension ran through the hull, though it might have been just a shift of wind. Yet Jon was certain it was more than that.

"I need to go topside," he muttered, voice tight.

Oberyn rose as well, eyes flicking to Ellaria and Obara, then back to Jon. "What's happened?"

Jon shook his head, already moving. "I'm not sure. Something's… off."

Anakin's gaze locked on Jon, conveying silent urgency. Jon felt his heart pounding. The corridor seemed too narrow, the air too thick, as he strode quickly toward the stairs that led above deck. Behind him, he heard Oberyn's footsteps and Obara's exclamation of confusion.

They reached the foot of the wooden steps. Just then, the ship rocked sharply to starboard, nearly throwing them against the bulkhead. Shouts echoed from the upper deck—a sudden clamor of alarm. Jon steadied himself against the railing, adrenaline surging.

A deckhand barreled down the steps, wild-eyed, nearly colliding with Jon. "Attack!" he shouted. "Ship on the starboard side! Looks like pirates flying the kraken banner!"

Even as the words left the man's mouth, another impact shuddered through the Leviathan's hull. The timbers groaned under the strain. Jon, Oberyn, Ellaria, and Obara exchanged a quick, grim look. Then, with no further discussion, they surged up the steps and burst onto the main deck.

High above, the sails of the Leviathan flapped in an agitated wind, the rigging rattling as sailors rushed to their stations. The day's drizzle had turned into a faint mist, casting the world in muted grays. But a more threatening sight greeted them off the starboard side: a warship smaller but more heavily armed, bearing sails of dark charcoal and a banner with the golden kraken of House Greyjoy flapping over the mainmast.

Cannon fire was not a thing in Westeros—no gunpowder. But catapults, ballistae, and scorpions bristled along the Greyjoy vessel's deck, launching deadly bolts. Already, one had crashed against the Leviathan's hull with enough force to jolt the entire ship. Crewmen frantically returned fire with the Leviathan's own ballistae, though the angle was poor.

Captain Rodrik Stone, standing near the ship's wheel, bellowed orders to the men, urging them to tack starboard and avoid collisions. Smoke rose from splintered wood along the Leviathan's gunwale where a bolt had struck. Another missile whistled overhead, crashing into the rigging and snapping a rope. A yardarm dangled precariously.

Jon felt the Force surge with alarm. This was no mere skirmish—whoever commanded that Greyjoy warship wanted blood. The deck lurched underfoot as Stone's steersman tried to angle away, but the Greyjoy vessel matched the maneuver, bounding across the waves in pursuit. Roughly a hundred yards separated them, though in sea terms, that distance could evaporate swiftly if they latched onto the Leviathan with grappling lines.

Crewmembers scrambled to ready the ship's own catapult. Oberyn, Obara, and Ellaria wasted no time either. Oberyn strode forward with deadly calm, calling for volunteers to muster at the starboard side. Obara drew her spear from behind a barrel, spinning it in her hands like a blur. Ellaria readied a crossbow she had borrowed from one of the Leviathan's archers, her eyes narrowed in focus.

Jon paused, inhaling the salty air. The swirling chaos of the Force buzzed around him—fear, aggression, the raw instincts of men braced for violence. He glanced to where Anakin's shimmering form had appeared near the main mast, invisible to all but Jon. The Force ghost wore a look of grave concern, but also a spark of encouragement.

Jon tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. "Any advice?" he muttered under his breath, knowing only Anakin could hear.

Anakin inclined his head. "You won't be able to hide your gifts forever, Jon. Not in a fight like this. The Greyjoy vessel is well-armed, and they have the advantage if they keep distance. The Leviathan can't outrun them easily. You might need to take bolder action."

Jon nodded, unsettled. He had spent weeks concealing the depths of his abilities—catching only glimpses of future danger or bending aside a blade with preternatural reflexes. But now, an open sea battle demanded more. Lives were at stake. Could he risk revealing his connection to the Force?

A thundering crack tore through the air. Another massive bolt slammed into the Leviathan's bulwark, sending a spray of splinters. One man cried out, clutching a wounded shoulder. Oberyn led a small team to drag him back, shouting, "Healers to the side!" In the confusion, the Greyjoy ship closed another dozen yards, turning broadside to unleash a volley of smaller projectiles—heavy crossbow bolts that peppered the Leviathan's deck.

Jon ducked behind a coil of rope, feeling the bolt whistle overhead. He scanned the horizon, searching for an opening. The Leviathan's ballista crews managed to fire once, sending a bolt that splashed harmlessly short of the enemy hull. Anger flared in Jon, though he tried to keep it contained. They needed to act.

Oberyn gestured to Jon. "We can't let them destroy us from range. We have to close in. The Leviathan is bigger—if we can grapple them and board, we might take the advantage in close combat."

Jon nodded, heart pounding. "Agreed." He glanced to the quarterdeck where Captain Stone raged at his steersman. The Leviathan was turning, but not fast enough. The enemy's next volley could do terrible damage. Already, men were shouting that one of the main sails had a hole from a scorpion bolt. The wind whipped it uselessly. The Greyjoy ship was slowly circling for a lethal angle.

Anakin's voice emerged in Jon's mind, calm but firm. "Trust your training. You can use the Force to shield the crew or redirect some projectiles. They'll see, but if you don't do it, you risk losing more lives."

Jon exhaled sharply. He rose from his crouch, stepping onto the starboard gunwale, ignoring the startled cries of nearby sailors. Obara shouted, "What are you doing?!" but Jon didn't answer. Instead, he narrowed his focus on the Greyjoy warship, senses heightened.

Another volley of crossbow bolts streaked across the gap. Jon felt them in the Force, each a line of deadly intent. He stretched out a hand, palm up, letting the Force flow through him. Time seemed to slow. He pictured each bolt's trajectory, the arcs they traced through the salt-laced air. With a surge of will, he pushed in the Force, not at the ship, but at the missiles themselves.

The bolts wavered mid-flight. One clattered harmlessly into the sea. Another spun aside, striking the Leviathan's deck with its momentum spent. A third, the largest, reversed course partway, as though yanked by invisible strings, and careened back toward the Greyjoy ship. Jon watched with racing heart as it crashed into the enemy's forecastle, eliciting shouts of confusion from the pirates.

Stunned silence reigned on the Leviathan's deck—for a breath, no one spoke. Ellaria's eyes went wide, and Oberyn let out a soft "Seven hells…" as if uncertain what he had just witnessed. Obara froze, spear halfway raised, her mouth parted in shock. The surrounding crew stared at Jon with a mixture of awe and fear. No one in Westeros was used to such open displays of power, save perhaps those who had heard tales of Red Priests or shadowbinders. But this was something else—a raw display of telekinetic might.

Anakin's form flickered near Jon, urging him on silently. Jon clenched his jaw. He couldn't stop now. Another scorpion bolt soared from the Greyjoy ship. Jon reached out again, channeling the Force. This time, the projectile veered wide, landing in the churning sea with a splash. Cheers and gasps broke out among the Leviathan's crew. Captain Stone, from the quarterdeck, momentarily gaped at Jon as though seeing a ghost.

Gradually, the pirates realized something was amiss. Their next volley came in a ragged wave, crossbowmen firing haphazardly in the hope of overwhelming Jon's ability. But he had no intention of passively waiting for them. Summoning a deeper surge of energy, he flung out his arms in a broad arc. Several bolts skittered harmlessly off the Leviathan's hull or tumbled into the sea. One or two found marks in crates or rigging, but far fewer than before. The advantage was swinging.

Oberyn wasted no time capitalizing on that advantage. "Now!" he roared to the ballista crew. "Fire while they're disordered!" The Leviathan's ballista loosed a heavy bolt, which sailed true and smashed into the Greyjoy ship's mid-deck. Wood splintered, and a shriek carried across the water.

"Bring us around!" Captain Stone yelled, his voice hoarse. "Full starboard turn! Grapples at the ready!"

Obara dashed forward to help the grappling crew gather ropes with weighted hooks. Ellaria reloaded her crossbow, sending a quarrel at any Greyjoy reaver who stood tall enough in the open. The Leviathan lurched to the right, the deck tilting as the pilot spun the wheel. Waves slapped the hull. Jon, chest heaving from exertion, kept his gaze locked on the enemy, poised to intercept any more bolts that flew their way.

In the swirl of chaos, a few bolts still found their mark. Several Leviathan crew fell, wounded or worse, and the Greyjoy ship's scorpions re-cocked for another shot. But the fear that might have paralyzed the Leviathan's men now gave way to stunned courage. They'd seen Jon's uncanny powers deflect multiple projectiles. If the bastard from the North could do that, perhaps they stood a fighting chance.

They closed the distance. The Greyjoy reavers, spotting the approaching hull, yelled curses and brandished grapnel lines. The ships were now barely twenty yards apart, rolling in the same chop. "Ready grapples!" Captain Stone bellowed. On the Greyjoy side, men in kraken-embroidered garb scrambled to do the same.

At that crucial moment, the Greyjoy scorpion fired one more massive bolt aimed at the Leviathan's mid-ship. Jon glimpsed it streaking across the diminishing gap. Summoning a final burst of focus, he extended his hand. The bolt wavered, slowed, then reversed, streaking back with savage speed. It punched through the Greyjoy scorpion, shattering it in a maelstrom of wood and iron. The defenders on that side reeled back in panic.

"Now!" Oberyn shouted. Obara, Ellaria, and half a dozen crew hurled grappling hooks across the gap. The hooks clanged against the Greyjoy rails. They yanked, pulling the ships together with a bone-jarring lurch. The hulls collided, scraping and sending up a deafening cacophony of splintering wood. But in seconds, the Leviathan's boarding party had their chance.

A roar went up from the Leviathan's crew: men brandishing swords, axes, and spears leaped across the rails. Jon jumped, landing on the Greyjoy deck in a crouch, Northwatch drawn. Oberyn vaulted over a coil of rope, spear whirling. Obara followed close behind, her own spear flashing in arcs. Ellaria reloaded her crossbow, picking her targets with deadly accuracy as she advanced.

Chaos reigned on the Greyjoy deck. Reavers in scale armor or chainmail rushed to repel the boarders. The clash of steel erupted at once. Jon ducked under a savage cut from a reaver's cutlass and skewered him through the side. Another tried to grab Jon from behind, but Jon spun, letting the Force guide his reflexes. He slammed his hilt into the man's jaw, then kicked him overboard into the churning sea.

Ellaria fired a crossbow bolt into a reaver poised to strike Obara from behind. The man collapsed with a grunt. Obara gave Ellaria a brief nod of gratitude, then danced away, her spear lashing out at two more pirates. Oberyn, a whirlwind of fluid grace, carved a path through the deck, each thrust or slash methodical. He had trained his entire life for combat, and it showed.

The Greyjoy vessel, though smaller, was heavily crewed by these reavers. They had the advantage of numbers, but the Leviathan boarders, emboldened by Jon's supernatural feats, fought with fierce determination. Swords rang, men shouted curses, and the deck grew slick with blood. Several reavers recognized Oberyn or Jon, calling out, "Kill the wizard!" or "Kill the Spear of Dorne!" but their lines were too disorganized.

Jon advanced amid the carnage, each step measured. The Force pulsed in him, heightening every sense. He saw openings before they formed, slipping past an axe blow to impale its wielder. He flicked his sword free and parried another slash aimed for his neck, responding with a precise thrust that downed the foe. In the corner of his eye, he saw Anakin's ghostly figure, silently guiding him to remain calm, to channel Vaapad's disciplined aggression without succumbing to rage. The swirl of the melee tested that resolve, but Jon held fast.

The battle raged for minutes that felt like hours. One by one, the Greyjoy reavers fell or retreated, forced back toward the quarterdeck of their own ship. The Leviathan's crew pressed on, chanting and howling, adrenaline surging. Oberyn and Obara fought side by side at the main deck, dispatching any who tried to flank them. Ellaria alternated between reloading crossbow bolts and drawing a short sword for close work.

Then a booming voice cut through the din, laced with amusement. "Enough!" it called. "Stand aside, you dogs! Let me have a real opponent."

From the shadows of the quarterdeck ladder emerged a tall man in dark leathers, a patch covering one eye. His hair was a wild tumble of black, salted with gray, and he wore a grin that chilled the blood. A strange, scarlet gleam flickered in the uncovered eye—an intensity that Jon recognized from certain stories. A presence in the Force, dark and potent, throbbed around him like a malignant aura.

"Euron Greyjoy," Oberyn hissed, halting his spear thrust as the reaver before him scrambled away in terror. Indeed, the name matched the man's black humor and rumored cruelty. The Crow's Eye, some called him—a feared captain in the Iron Islands. He was said to have roamed far seas, collecting dark artifacts and forging alliances with strange powers.

Euron stood at the top of the short flight of steps, surveying the carnage on his deck with mild amusement. "You've made quite a mess, my friends," he said, tone mocking. "And one of you wields… interesting talents." His gaze landed on Jon. A slow grin spread, revealing teeth that seemed too perfect. "Ah, I see it in your eyes—magic. Or something like it."

Jon tensed, stepping away from a fallen reaver, blade at the ready. The Force prickled with dire warning. Euron was no ordinary foe. Anakin materialized at Jon's flank, invisible to the others. "Careful," the ghost murmured. "This one is strong in the Force. He's tapped into some dark current. No normal man can match him."

Ellaria, Oberyn, and Obara formed a loose semicircle behind Jon. They, too, sensed something strange about this Greyjoy captain. The surviving reavers retreated to either side, giving their leader a wide berth, perhaps more afraid of him than of the boarders. Euron chuckled. "You've cost me a scorpion, a dozen men, and plenty of blood. And here I was, so close to a fine prize of slaves to sell in the east." His single, uncovered eye gleamed in the misty light. "But you… you're something better. Let's see if you bleed red or gold, my sorcerer friend."

Oberyn took a step forward, face hard with anger. "If you want a fight, Greyjoy, you can face all of us. You're outnumbered."

Euron barked a laugh. "Oh, I never minded the odds. But I think it's the wizard who wants to cross blades with me, yes?" He tapped his temple. "I feel the power calling." He extended his sword—a wicked, curving blade with an inlaid edge that gave it a faint shimmer. "Come on, boy. Let's see what conjurations you have."

Jon's heart pounded. The Force sang in his veins, warning him that Euron's presence was twisted by a dark resonance. Perhaps some artifact he carried or a pact he had made. Anakin's voice drifted through Jon's mind. "He's tapping into a destructive side. A normal fighter would be overwhelmed. But you have Vaapad—a style that draws on aggression without surrendering to it. You can defeat him if you stay true to yourself."

Jon exhaled, nodding subtly. He raised Northwatch. "Stand aside," he told Oberyn softly. "He wants this. And I can handle him."

Oberyn hesitated, but Ellaria laid a hand on his shoulder. "Let Jon fight. We'll be ready if Euron cheats."

Obara twirled her spear with obvious impatience. "I'll cut him down myself if he tries anything."

The tension in the air crackled. Euron descended the short steps, boots thudding on blood-slick planks. His men parted, forming a ring. The Leviathan boarders pressed in behind Jon, forming an opposing semicircle. All eyes locked on the two men now faced off near the center of the deck.

Euron flexed his shoulders, rolling his neck as though warming up for a dance. His single eye shone with malevolence. "You think your little parlor tricks will save you? I've seen greater powers than you can imagine. Blood magic in the East. Shadows in Asshai. The Drowned God's gifts. They all whisper secrets to me." He let out a low, unhinged chuckle. "Let's see if you die like the rest."

Jon felt a wave of nauseating pressure emanate from Euron, as if the man projected a psychic darkness. Jon steadied himself, remembering Anakin's teaching: the Force was not a single note but a vast symphony. Euron's malevolent current could not drown out Jon's resolve unless Jon allowed it. He steadied his breathing and sank into the stance of Vaapad. Knees bent, sword angled forward, hands light but firm.

Euron moved first, bursting into a speed that belied his size. He slashed at Jon's shoulder, the blade humming with ill intent. Jon parried, sparks flying as steel met steel. The impact jarred Jon's arms. Euron's strength was immense—likely boosted by the same dark power swirling around him. But Jon flowed with the strike, letting Vaapad's principle guide him. He converted Euron's momentum into a sidestep, then riposted. Euron jerked back, letting the tip of Northwatch pass an inch from his chest.

A gasp rippled among the watchers. The two circled each other. Euron's grin stretched wider. "Oh, you're fast. This will be fun." He lunged again, feinting low before hacking high. Jon recognized the feint, pivoting so the high slash met only air. Then Jon countered with a diagonal blow aimed at Euron's torso. Euron's sword flicked around in time to block. The clang echoed, the force of it rattling Jon's teeth.

They exchanged a furious flurry of strikes—Euron pressing relentlessly, each blow laden with monstrous power. Jon called on the Force to sense each attack a fraction of a second before it landed, letting him meet it or slip aside. Yet Euron's blade seemed almost alive, filled with a savage will. Once or twice, it nearly caught Jon off-guard.

On the sidelines, Oberyn looked ready to intervene. But Ellaria placed a hand on his spear. "No," she whispered. "Wait." Obara, though itching for blood, nodded in grim agreement.

Breathing hard, Jon recognized that Euron was indeed strong—stronger than any ordinary man had a right to be. Anakin's voice resonated in Jon's thoughts: "He's channeling a dark connection to the Force, or some equivalent power. But you have Vaapad. Embrace that internal storm. Let your emotions fuel you, but do not let them blind you."

Jon inhaled, feeling the swirl of anger at this pirate who attacked them so callously. The frustration at Euron's mocking grin, the hunger to protect the Leviathan's crew. He let that anger flow through him without losing himself to it. Vaapad thrived on emotional energy, forging it into a blade of unwavering precision. The next time Euron lunged, Jon didn't just parry—he channeled a lightning-fast counter that hammered Euron's sword wide. In that instant, Jon stepped in, slashing for Euron's shoulder.

Euron brought his blade back in time to block, but the sheer force of Jon's onslaught drove him back a step. Jon pressed forward, unleashing a combination of strikes that crackled with lethal intent. Their swords blurred, a tempest of steel. Euron's grin faltered, replaced by a furious scowl as he realized Jon's style had changed into something he couldn't easily predict.

He roared, unleashing a dark wave of energy that pulsed outward, nearly knocking Jon off balance. Crewmen staggered, some toppling to their knees. But Jon steadied himself in the Force, letting the wave pass around him like water around a stone. He lunged anew, smashing aside Euron's guard. Their blades locked, faces inches apart.

"How—?" Euron spat, his single eye widened in disbelief.

Jon glared back, muscles trembling. "You're not the only one who wields power."

He shoved Euron's sword aside, pivoting smoothly. Vaapad demanded aggression, so Jon channeled it. He delivered a punishing slash that opened a gash on Euron's left bicep. The pirate captain hissed, staggering back, blood staining his dark tunic. Rage twisted his features. He flicked a hand as though to summon reinforcements. Indeed, a handful of Greyjoy reavers took a step forward, but Oberyn darted in, spear flashing. Obara hurled a dagger. Ellaria notched a crossbow. In seconds, those would-be helpers lay dead or cowering.

"Fight your own battle," Oberyn growled at Euron, leveling his spear. "Your men won't save you."

Snarling, Euron regained his balance, eye burning with malevolent fire. He pressed his uninjured arm to the wound. "You think you've cornered me?" he rasped. "I am the storm, the drowned god's chosen. My words are—"

He lunged again, but this time his strikes lacked the unstoppable momentum. Blood loss and raw fury made him reckless. Jon slipped aside, adopting a fluid Vaapad footwork. He deflected each swing in turn, punishing Euron with quick counter-cuts that bit into flesh. A slash across the thigh. A stab to the side. Euron stumbled, cursed, but refused to yield. His eye blazed scarlet.

Another surge of dark force radiated from Euron, but it was weaker, more desperate. Jon batted it aside with his own will. Then he hammered Euron's sword wide and drove Northwatch into Euron's stomach, twisting. The pirate captain gasped, red staining his lips. Silence fell across the deck as every onlooker held their breath.

Jon withdrew the blade. Euron sank to his knees, coughing. Blood dripped onto the planks. For a moment, he stared at his killer with mingled hatred and something like awe. Jon leveled the point of his sword at Euron's throat, waiting for final words.

Euron forced a strangled laugh, spitting blood. "Our words… we do not sow." His voice came in a wet rasp. "I sowed… a thousand storms… across these seas. And so shall… the black tide… devour you one day." He coughed again, half-laughing, half-choking.

Jon met his gaze, heart pounding. Then, with a sure thrust, he ended Euron Greyjoy's life.

A hush settled over the deck. Euron's body slumped sideways, the last breath rattling from his throat. His men, scattered and demoralized, dropped their weapons or backed away. Some tried to flee belowdecks or leap overboard. The Leviathan's crew, emboldened, surged forward to secure the ship, binding any reaver who surrendered. A ragged cheer went up, though it was tinged with shock at Jon's display of power.

Jon stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow, sword still dripping. Vaapad's intense focus ebbed, leaving him feeling slightly hollow. He inhaled unsteadily, letting the Force recede to a calmer flow. Anakin's ghostly form stood nearby, a soft expression of approval on his face.

Oberyn, Ellaria, and Obara approached, halting a few steps away. For a moment, none spoke. Then Oberyn gave a low whistle, wiping blood from his spear tip. "Jon Snow… I knew you were formidable, but this… I've never seen anything like it."

Obara frowned, eyes darting between Jon's sword and the lifeless Euron. "You deflected those bolts. You threw them back."

Ellaria lowered her crossbow. "Is that sorcery? I've heard of the red priests conjuring fire, or the Faceless Men of Braavos shifting their faces, but… you move objects through the air? And you matched that demon-eyed Greyjoy blow for blow?"

Jon swallowed, uncertain how to begin. He realized the entire Leviathan crew was watching him from their vantage on both ships. Their stares ranged from awe to fear. Even Captain Stone, hobbling across the plank, wore an expression of reluctant wonder.

Anakin murmured softly, "It's time, Jon. Tell them what they need to know. They've earned an explanation."

Jon inhaled. "We'll talk. Let's… regroup on the Leviathan's deck. Secure these ships. Bury the dead. Then I'll explain."

Captain Stone nodded grimly, shouting orders for the men to make the Greyjoy ship fast, tend to the wounded, and salvage any goods. The Leviathan's crew moved quickly, some spitting curses at the dead reavers, others prying valuables from the hold. Jon, followed by Oberyn's group, returned to the Leviathan. The horizon still bore a dreary gray mist, but the immediate threat had passed. They had won.

By late afternoon, a harsh wind picked up, driving away the mist. Waves slapped the Leviathan's hull with a steady rhythm. The battered ship limped forward, still afloat but sporting new scars in the form of splintered timbers and torn sails. Repairs had begun in earnest, sailors patching the rigging where crossbow bolts had shredded rope. Others hauled the bodies of fallen crew for a hasty burial at sea. A subdued heaviness hung over the vessel, born of grief for lost comrades and the shock of the day's events.

Jon stood near the ship's stern, gazing across the water. The Greyjoy ship—now partially stripped—bobbed a short distance away, its deck quiet. Captain Stone had decided to keep it as a prize or scuttle it after salvage, but the main concern was continuing the journey to Valyria. With Euron dead, the rest of the reavers had surrendered or fled. The threat was gone, but the aftertaste of the battle remained bitter.

He breathed in the salt air, letting it fill his lungs. Anakin's form appeared beside him, faintly translucent in the late-day sun. "You did well," the Force ghost said quietly. "You saved many lives."

Jon set his jaw. "At the cost of revealing myself."

Anakin nodded. "Yes. But you couldn't have stood by and let them die. You made the choice the Jedi would make. To protect life, even if it costs you anonymity."

Jon sighed, turning his gaze back to the deck, where a small gathering approached: Oberyn, Ellaria, Obara, Captain Stone, and a few senior crew members. Their expressions told Jon the moment for explanations had come. He glanced at Anakin, who gave him a nod of reassurance and faded from sight, leaving Jon alone in the eyes of those who could not see the ghost.

They arrived, forming a semicircle around him near the rail. Captain Stone cleared his throat. "Jon Snow. We owe you… the Leviathan owes you. Without your, ah, abilities, we'd have been finished. Those bolts would have torn us apart." He paused, glancing at the others. "But the men are… confused. Frightened, some of them. You wield some power akin to magic?"

Jon pressed his lips together. "It's called the Force. I was born with a connection to it."

Obara stared hard, folding her arms. "Never heard of such a thing."

Ellaria's voice was softer. "Is it like R'hllor's priests? Or some other gods?"

Jon shook his head. "I'm not a priest or warlock. The Force isn't exactly a god. It's an energy field that flows through living things. Only a rare few can sense it or manipulate it. I discovered I had this power when I was young, and I trained in secret."

Oberyn raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. "Why keep it secret? Such an edge could win you fame and fortune."

A hollow laugh escaped Jon. "Because people fear magic in Westeros. They'd call me a demon, or the bastard of some blood sorcery. I only found one teacher who understood. But it's safer for both of us that I keep his identity hidden."

Captain Stone rubbed his chin. "Well, I can't say I understand it fully. But you saved my ship. The crew might be uneasy, but I'll make sure they respect you, not fear you. And if they do fear you, it'll be the healthy kind of fear that keeps them in line."

Ellaria offered a wry smile. "You've seen the reaction. But you've also shown we need you. This journey isn't safe. Not from the Ironborn, nor from the unknown horrors of Valyria." She paused, exchanging a look with Oberyn. "Tell us, Jon. Is this Force what drove you to join this expedition?"

Jon considered how much to reveal. He decided on a partial truth. "I feel… pulled to Valyria. The Force calls me there. I have dreams and feelings that something important lies in those ruins. Knowledge, or allies—something that might help me prepare for darker threats that loom in the world."

Obara narrowed her eyes. "Darker threats. White Walkers? The Long Night legends?"

Jon nodded slowly. "Something like that. I sense they're real, and one day they might come for Westeros. I need any advantage I can find."

Captain Stone blinked, shifting uncomfortably. "Well, that's a grim prospect. But I won't question your motives, so long as you pull your weight." He looked around at the others. "Does anyone object to having a… a Force-user in our ranks?"

Silence, broken only by the lapping waves. Then Oberyn chuckled. "Object? Why would I? He's a friend. He's proven honorable. If I have to sail into a cursed land, I'd rather do it with a man who can fling bolts back at our enemies."

Obara grunted in agreement, though her expression held a trace of lingering wariness. Ellaria nodded. "You saved my life today when that reaver nearly skewered me. I have only thanks to give you, not condemnation."

Captain Stone exhaled, relief plain on his face. "Then it's settled. I'll speak to the crew. We have a week or more until Valyria, thanks to these stormy waters and the damage we've taken. That should give them time to calm down, get used to the idea." He offered Jon a tight smile. "Just… maybe don't go tossing men around the deck for fun, all right?"

Jon allowed a faint smile. "I won't. Thank you, Captain."

Stone nodded curtly, then excused himself, walking off to oversee the continuing repairs. The senior crewmen followed, muttering among themselves but glancing at Jon with a mixture of respect and awe. That left only Oberyn, Ellaria, and Obara. A hush fell between them for a moment, the wind tugging at their clothes.

Ellaria reached out and gave Jon's hand a comforting squeeze. "I'm sorry you had to reveal yourself under such violence. Must have been frightening."

Jon nodded. "It was. But I couldn't stand by."

Oberyn placed a companionable arm around Jon's shoulder. "You continue to surprise me, Jon Snow. A warrior, a sorcerer, a secret prodigy. If you ever tire of the North, consider that Dorne might welcome someone of your gifts. We appreciate skill and passion."

Obara nodded grudgingly. "You'd fit better in Sunspear than among the frosty lords of Winterfell."

Ellaria's eyes sparkled. "Truly. Dorne values personal freedom and unique talents. Not so many old superstitions."

Jon felt warmth flood his chest. His time with them had been short, but they felt more like family than any at Winterfell. Yet he also felt the tug of his quest, the sense that the Force had other plans. "I'm honored," he replied. "Truly. But right now, I'm still bound for Valyria. We'll see what the future holds."

Oberyn stepped back, crossing his arms with an easy grin. "Just keep us in mind, should you ever crave the desert sun and the indulgences of Dorne."

Ellaria teased, "Yes, there's much more to enjoy there than dust and heat. Our wines are sweeter, our water gardens are enchanting, and our company is seldom dull."

Jon chuckled softly. "After this voyage, that sounds tempting."

Obara snorted. "You should see him with a spear. He might pick up a second skill after that sword of his. Maybe I'll teach him—" She broke off, noticing the wound on Jon's arm from an earlier scuffle. Blood had dried on the torn sleeve. "You're hurt. Let's get that tended."

Jon glanced down, having forgotten the pain in the heat of battle. The adrenaline had dulled it, but now it throbbed. "It's just a scratch," he murmured.

Ellaria shook her head, guiding him gently by the shoulder. "No sense letting it fester. Come on, we'll find the maester or the ship's healer. Then we can talk about wine and warm breezes again."

Night fell over the Leviathan, the air thick with the scents of salt, tar, and blood that still lingered from the battle. Crewmen lit lanterns along the rail, giving the deck a ghostly glow. The wounded had been tended, the dead wrapped in sailcloth for a respectful burial at sea in the morning. Only a subdued murmur of voices broke the quiet, as men told stories of the fight or whispered rumors of Jon's powers.

Belowdecks, in a small cabin near the stern, Jon sat cross-legged on a bunk, bandages binding his forearm. A single lantern swayed overhead, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The space was cramped—barely enough for the bunk, a trunk of supplies, and a stool. But it was private. Oberyn, Ellaria, and Obara had invited him to speak with them, presumably to discuss something beyond the immediate matter of the Force. They had just arrived from checking on the final dispositions of the day's casualties.

Oberyn leaned against the cabin door, arms folded. "Jon, you know you have our gratitude. But there's something else we wanted to discuss."

Ellaria perched on the edge of the trunk, while Obara stood near the lantern, occasionally brushing her fingers over the flame as if testing its heat. They all bore signs of battle—dried blood on their leathers, fresh scrapes on their arms or faces. But their eyes shone with a fierce light that belied weariness.

Jon regarded them curiously. "Yes?"

Oberyn nodded to Ellaria, who straightened. "You recall how we teased that you might find a home in Dorne? That wasn't idle talk."

Obara spoke, her voice low. "Dorne's always looking for allies who aren't shackled by the old ways. Father has influence, as do I, despite being… well, a Sand."

Oberyn's lips curved in a thoughtful smile. "The truth is, Jon, that Dorne is in a precarious position politically. We've no love for King Robert, nor do we trust the Lannisters. My brother, Prince Doran, rules with a cautious hand, but I sense tensions brewing. If war breaks out or if the Iron Throne fails to hold the realm together, Dorne might stand alone." He paused, letting the words sink in. "I see potential in you, not just for your talents with the Force, but your leadership, your honor. If you ever wanted to pledge yourself to House Martell, we'd welcome you—bastard or not. In Dorne, the word 'bastard' carries less stigma than in the rest of Westeros."

Ellaria nodded. "You'd be a valued companion, friend, and champion. The Water Gardens, Sunspear—they could become your home. You might even teach some of our best spearmen or swordsmen how to fight with your… gifts, if you wished."

Obara tapped the lantern's frame. "And if not, we still hope you'll at least remain an ally. We share your journey now, but in the future, who knows? We might have need of each other."

Jon blinked, overwhelmed by the offer. He had never imagined that a great house—particularly Dorne, which was famed for its fierce independence—might consider a bastard from the North. He thought of the cold halls of Winterfell, where he'd grown up feeling unwanted. Now these people offered him acceptance. The idea tugged at his heart. But the Force whispered another path, a calling that went beyond any single region.

He offered a small smile. "I'm honored. Truly. You've made me feel more at home these last weeks than I ever did in Winterfell. But I can't pledge myself to Dorne yet, not with the journey unfinished. I have a destiny—something calling me to face a greater threat."

Oberyn studied him, then gave a resigned nod. "I suspected as much. Well, you have a standing invitation. And if you're ever in Dorne, you'll be received as a guest and friend. I'll ensure my brother knows of your valor."

Ellaria smiled softly. "Consider it an open door. Even if you refuse now, the offer remains."

Obara shrugged, feigning indifference. "Just don't forget us when you're off saving the world."

Jon chuckled, touched by their sincerity. "I promise I won't. And if you ever need my help, just send word."

A comfortable silence settled, the lantern flickering overhead. Then Oberyn pushed off the doorframe. "Well, that's settled. Now, get some rest. We'll likely see storms or strange currents as we near Valyria. The men above say the waters grow hotter in that region, the air thick with sulfur. We'll need our wits about us."

Jon nodded, rising from the bunk to bid them good night. They exchanged a few more quiet words, and then the three departed, leaving Jon alone. He felt a swirl of gratitude, relief, and anticipation. The battle was won, but Valyria lay ahead, with all its rumored horrors. Could the Force truly guide him through such a cursed land?

He blew out the lantern, letting darkness cloak the cabin. Stretching out on the bunk, he closed his eyes and reached for calm in the Force. Images of Euron's mocking grin flickered behind his eyelids, but he brushed them aside, focusing on the lull of the ship's movement. The timbers groaned with each wave. Gradually, his breathing slowed, and sleep claimed him.

The Leviathan spent the next several days mending sails, re-rigging lines, and patching holes below the waterline. The Greyjoy warship, half scuttled and stripped of supplies, was left drifting after the crew took what they needed. The surviving reavers, a handful at best, were marooned on a small reef. Few on the Leviathan expressed pity.

Jon used this time to recover from his wounds and adjust to his new status among the crew. Where before he had been simply the quiet, skilled swordsman from the North, now whispers of "magic" and "sorcerer" followed him wherever he went. Some men avoided him, crossing themselves or muttering prayers when he passed. Others, braver or more open-minded, approached with cautious curiosity. Jon answered as best he could, reassuring them he posed no threat to allies. Over time, tension eased into a kind of mystique. Many still eyed him warily, but they no longer flinched at his presence.

Oberyn, Obara, and Ellaria remained at his side, deflecting any hostility. Even Captain Stone, though still stern, occasionally invited Jon to dine with him. "Better to keep the man who can catch scorpion bolts with his mind close at hand," he joked ruefully. The truce was uneasy but held. The Leviathan continued south-east, propelled by meager winds and the crew's determination.

At last, on a morning where the sun rose red and angry, the call came from the masthead: "Smoke on the horizon!" Men rushed to the rails, squinting eastward. Indeed, a dark smudge marred the sky, thickening as the hours passed. The sails caught an acrid wind that carried a faint stench of sulfur, and the sea currents grew warmer underfoot.

By midday, a shadowy coastline became visible: jagged rocks, twisted spires rising from the water like broken teeth. Clouds of ash drifted overhead, blotting out the sun. Captain Stone ordered the sails partially furled, fearing hidden reefs and submerged hazards. Sailors coughed at the tang of sulfur that burned their throats. The water, once a deep green-blue, turned a sickly gray, littered with floating debris.

From the forecastle, Jon gazed at the shoreline with a mixture of awe and dread. This was Valyria, or at least the edges of its domain. Anakin appeared at his side, face solemn. "The Force is heavy here," the ghost murmured. "The cataclysm that destroyed Valyria echoes still in this land, a wound that hasn't healed."

Jon felt it too—a prickling at the edges of his senses, as though the very air were charged with lingering tragedy. The crew, including Oberyn's party, gathered on deck, peering into the murky distance. Ellaria wrapped a kerchief over her nose, wincing at the sulfur smell. Obara squinted, searching for signs of safe anchorage. Oberyn silently took in the sight, his usual banter replaced by grim curiosity.

A hush fell over the ship as they neared the black coastline. Twisted towers jutted from the rock, their stone scorched by ancient fire. Some appeared to have melted, drooping like tallow candles. Once, Valyria's architecture must have been grand—graceful arches and spired domes. Now, everything was broken, half-submerged, or shrouded by swirling ash.

Jon thought he glimpsed massive bones along a shoreline—dragon bones, perhaps, bleached white against obsidian sand. The very sea seemed treacherous, with hidden shoals. Steam vented from fissures near the waterline. A mild sense of foreboding pressed down, though Jon steadied himself in the Force. He could almost hear echoes of screams from centuries past.

Captain Stone barked orders to sound the depths, searching for a path that wouldn't run them aground on volcanic reefs. The Leviathan slowed, sails flapping listlessly in the still, ashen air. Crewmen moved about with caution, casting worried looks at the land. Some muttered prayers to the Seven, or to their personal gods. Jon noticed the lines of tension in every face. Even the bravest recognized that Valyria was no ordinary ruin.

The wind shifted, carrying more sulfur and a faint rumble that might have been distant volcanic activity. Overhead, the clouds glowed with a sickly orange hue, as if lit from within. The shattered coastline stretched on, revealing half-toppled towers that once belonged to proud Valyrian lords. Now, they served as haunting reminders of a fallen empire.

Jon, flanked by Oberyn, Ellaria, and Obara, stood at the bow. The Dornish trio took in the sights with solemn fascination. No jests or friendly banter now. Only quiet awe. Oberyn finally broke the silence. "So this is what remains of the Freehold. Hard to imagine that once they say the Valyrians controlled half the known world."

Obara scanned the ruins with a warrior's eye. "Hard to imagine people lived here at all. It looks like the very stones are cursed."

Ellaria wrapped her arms around herself, shivering despite the heat in the air. "Something about this place feels… wrong. We should be careful. I've heard tales of the 'stone men'—victims of greyscale who roam these waters."

Jon nodded, recalling those same tales. "We'll have to stay vigilant." Then he turned to the swirl of darkness on the horizon. The Force tugged at him. This was the place he had sought, the realm of crumbling memory and hidden power. "We're here," he murmured. "Valyria."

Anakin's presence glimmered by Jon's shoulder, though none else saw him. "Yes," the ghost said softly. "Your trial begins now."

The Leviathan glided forward, its timbers creaking ominously in the hush. Ahead lay a labyrinth of partially submerged buildings, twisted spires, and rubble-choked canals. The next chapter of Jon's journey beckoned. Whatever secrets the Force might reveal—or horrors that lurked in this ashen domain—he would face them with newfound allies and a heart steeled by purpose.

Night approached swiftly, the blood-red sun sinking behind ashen clouds. Torches flared along the Leviathan's rails, illuminating the dread ruins that spread before them like the charred bones of a long-dead giant. Jon stared across the deck, a swirl of emotions in his chest: apprehension, determination, and an odd sense of homecoming. The Force called him here, to this cradle of ancient power and cataclysm. He had answered.

Now, the time had come to learn what secrets Valyria yet held—and whether they could save the world from the coming darkness.