A Requiem of Ash and Stars

CHAPTER 17: CONVERGENCE OF FATE

They had been sailing for hours in that small, worn vessel, the wood creaking at every shift of the tide. Jon stood near the bow, face turned to the horizon, while Arya sat cross-legged on the cramped deck, scrunching her nose in frustration. The Isle of Faces was almost in sight—somewhere ahead in the morning haze that clung to the Gods Eye like a cloak—but Jon had just halted their lessons, noticing Arya's agitation. He offered her a lopsided smile, trying to coax her into calmness, but Arya's brows only furrowed more deeply. She tried to breathe as he'd shown her, inhaling through her nose, exhaling through parted lips, attempting to sink into some kind of centered feeling he called "meditation."

"It's pointless," Arya muttered, cheeks reddening. "I can't… I don't feel anything but cold and annoyed. This boat stinks, and the waves won't be still. How am I supposed to concentrate?"

Jon, still gazing forward, chuckled softly. "Relax, Arya. The waves are part of the lesson. The Force—like these waves—doesn't stop just because we want it to. Sometimes we have to adapt. You're too tense."

She huffed. "Easy for you to say, you're the King of Essos or something now. You can do all these fancy Force powers. I can't even sit still without wanting to punch something."

Jon's grin faded into a thoughtful expression. "I never asked for that crown. But yes, training took me a while too. When Anakin first guided me, I thought the Force was just some wild trick I barely understood. But I learned that calm is only half the path. You also have to accept your restlessness. Channel it." He turned slightly, eyes flicking down to the ghostly presence that only he perceived—Anakin Skywalker, shimmering in pale translucence near the ship's mast. "Isn't that right?"

Anakin folded his arms, half-smiling at Jon. "Exactly. If you can't still your mind fully, then find a middle path. Use that energy without letting it rule you." Of course, only Jon heard him. Anakin had grown used to that fact—no one else perceived him except in rare moments, a Force ghost tied to Jon's journey.

Jon nodded to Arya. "Try once more. Don't fight the motion of the boat. Let your body move with it, let each sway be part of your breathing. Don't fixate on perfect stillness."

Arya rolled her eyes but closed them, trying again. She inhaled, matching the gentle roll of the hull. For a fleeting moment, she felt something—like the tingle of wind on her skin, or a faint hum beneath her ribs. Her brow smoothed, lips parting. Then a sudden jolt rocked the boat, making her lurch and gasp. She snapped her eyes open, cursing. "That wave did it on purpose."

Jon laughed. "Waves rarely care about our efforts, little sister."

Arya made a face at him but forgave his amusement. She had to admit she'd felt the barest glimmer of possibility. Jon hopped down from the bow, offering her a hand up, and she accepted. The vessel's skipper, a grizzled Essosi with a heavy beard, hollered that they'd soon see the Isle's shore. Behind them, the early sunlight painted the water in streaks of gold and silver. A crisp wind fluttered the sails. The Gods Eye region was known for its eerie beauty, the lake vast and still in many places. Yet in the morning hush, Arya's heart pounded with excitement. She'd heard so many legends about this isle. Rumors said the greenseers once lived there, that the old gods' power ran deep in the weirwoods. She only half believed it. But Jon insisted they needed to come. He wanted something, some resource to replace these "kyber crystals" he said had once powered their special blades. She didn't fully understand, only that Jon's lightsabers were incomplete. The hilts existed—he'd forged them in secret during a brief stop in Valyria—but they lacked the crystals that gave them life.

Arya reached into her belt pouch, brushing fingertips against the small metal cylinder Jon had let her hold at times. It was inert—just a polished handle with no blade. The idea that it could one day create a beam of light that cut like steel fascinated her. She'd seen Jon and Viserys do wonders, even conjuring lightning from their hands. Her mind reeled at the possibilities, though she also felt a quiet fear. If she mastered such power, what kind of person would she become?

Anakin's voice reached Jon's ears. "The Isle resonates with the Force. It might mimic or amplify what kyber crystals once did. I sense something potent here—like a vortex of living energy."

Jon nodded, answering out loud so Arya could hear half the conversation. "Yes, the island calls to me, like a beacon." He paused, glancing at Anakin. "But you also feel different, Master. More… solid. Is that possible?"

Anakin pursed his lips. "Strange. Indeed, I feel less like a faint spirit. The Force saturates this region, granting me more tangibility. Perhaps the old gods or some local phenomenon merges with our energies. We'll see."

Arya, unaware of Anakin's words, only saw Jon murmur, "Yes, Master," to thin air. She teased, "You're talking to your ghost friend, aren't you? Don't spook me too much, Jon."

He gave an apologetic grin. "Sorry. Force of habit." Then he turned serious. "We'll be cautious. The stories say the Isle of Faces holds ancient powers. If the old gods dwell here, we must treat them with respect."

At last, the ship's skipper navigated a shallow area, letting them disembark on a small dock overshadowed by towering weirwoods. A hush fell over the place, broken only by gentle lapping of water against reeds. Arya inhaled, noting how the air smelled of moss and damp earth, different from the hot dryness of Essos. The transition felt jarring but oddly welcoming. The skipper tied off the boat, saying he'd wait. Jon hoisted a small pack, gestured for Arya to follow, and they set foot on the Isle. A creeping sense of awe caught her breath. Pale weirwood trunks twisted around them, red leaves glimmering overhead. The entire forest seemed to exhale in unison, as though it lived and breathed with a single mind.

They ventured inland, stepping over tangled roots and thick undergrowth. Jon led, trusting the Force to guide him, occasionally exchanging remarks with Anakin. Arya half-listened, half studied the surroundings. She saw carved faces in the weirwood bark—grotesque visages with hollow eyes, mouths open in silent witness. Each face seemed to watch them pass. She shivered, remembering old tales from the North about the children of the forest, the White Walkers, the first men.

After a time, Anakin said something that made Jon frown. He paused, turning to Arya. "Wait, keep close. The forest is thick, easy to get separated."

She nodded, but in the next moment, the ground sloped down, forcing them to pick their way through a maze of fallen logs. A swirl of mist drifted across the mossy floor. The weirwoods grew denser, the red leaves forming a canopy that filtered the daylight into crimson shadows. Arya clutched the inert hilt at her belt. She felt an odd prickling at the back of her neck, as though the trees whispered secrets. She realized she had lost sight of Jon. "Jon?" she called, voice echoing in the hush. No response.

Anakin's intangible presence near Jon rippled. "Arya's gone," he said softly. Jon cursed under his breath, spinning around, but the weirwoods formed an unbroken ring of identical trunks. He hadn't noticed Arya slip away—somehow the Force had guided him along a path. Or perhaps something else. He realized with shock that Anakin's form looked more solid, almost fleshly. "You… You look different, Master," Jon said, stepping closer. Indeed, Anakin's ghostly glow had intensified, veins of color in his arms. "Is this place doing this?"

Anakin glanced at his hands, flexing them. He felt the wood of a weirwood trunk as if truly tangible. "Yes, it must be. The Force here saturates everything. Perhaps the old gods, or an echo of something older. I can feel life swirling. Let's keep going. Maybe we'll find Arya along the way. Or the Force wants us somewhere."

Jon hesitated, worry for Arya gnawing at him. But the pull from deeper in the Isle was undeniable. He inhaled. "Arya's strong. She's trained enough. We'll find her soon. This place is safe… or at least, not malevolent. She might be fine." He hoped his words rang true. Trusting the Force to keep her from harm, he pressed forward, each step drawing him deeper into a hush that felt oddly reverent.

They reached a clearing beside a winding stream. The water glinted silver under the canopy of scarlet leaves. A large weirwood loomed near the bank, trunk twisted into a shape reminiscent of a hunched figure. The carved face in this weirwood was more defined, eyes carved wide, mouth open in a silent call. Jon swallowed, feeling gooseflesh on his arms. Something intangible flickered at the corner of his vision.

Then two shapes manifested, shimmering like heat haze. Anakin stiffened at Jon's side, hand drifting to a lightsaber that he no longer truly possessed. Jon's heart pounded. The shapes coalesced into two ghostly figures, each distinct in outline. One was a dark-haired woman with a gentle face, dressed in simple garments reminiscent of Tatooine's desert. The other was a fiery Northern beauty in a plain white gown, with hair flowing in soft waves. Their eyes shone with a luminous softness. Jon's breath caught. He didn't recognize the first woman, but from Anakin's reaction—a stunned intake of air—Jon guessed that must be Shmi Skywalker, Anakin's mother. The second woman's face was uncannily familiar. Lyanna Stark. He'd seen her statue in the crypts of Winterfell, dreamt of her face. She looked younger than he expected, but her Stark features were unmistakable.

"Mother?" Anakin breathed, stepping forward, though he was still half-ghost himself. The tall woman with dark hair smiled, tears in her eyes. "Anakin," she whispered, voice trembling with warmth. "It's been so long. The Force allowed me here, gave me shape so we can speak."

Lyanna, for her part, let out a trembling laugh, focusing on Jon. "My sweet boy. Jon… or Jaehaerys, as I hear they call you. My precious child. I never thought I'd see you grown." Her eyes moistened. "You look so much like your father."

Jon froze, emotions tangling in his chest. This was his mother, the one whose memory had haunted him, left him a question all his life. Words caught in his throat, tears burning his vision. He managed a hoarse whisper. "Lyanna… mother… is this real?"

She stepped closer, intangible form shimmering, but he felt some warmth as if she touched his arm. "Yes, in a sense. This isle merges with the Force in such a deep way that we can manifest physically for a time. We come because the Force wills it. Because you and Anakin still have paths to walk, answers to find."

Anakin stared at Shmi, voice breaking. "I… I'm sorry for everything, mother. I failed you. I… turned to darkness, nearly. I—"

She hushed him gently. "My son, you found your way back. You freed the galaxy once, then came here, guiding Jon. Let your regrets fade. We're proud of you, all of us. You have done enough."

Tears glistened in Anakin's eyes as he pressed a ghostly hand to hers. They seemed to meet in some ethereal midpoint, the swirling Force weaving them together. Jon inhaled, turning to Lyanna. Her smile was bittersweet, love shining in her eyes. "Forgive me," she murmured, voice trembling. "I never wanted to burden you with secrecy. But the realm's cruelty forced Ned's hand. I hope you can forgive your uncle for how you grew up."

Jon managed a shaky laugh. "Ned was the best father I could've wanted. I only wish I'd known the truth. That I'm… Targaryen. I stand in Essos, forging empires, mother. It's beyond anything I imagined. And yet I still feel like Jon Snow, a bastard from Winterfell."

She cupped his cheek with intangible warmth. "You're both. The realm's perceptions need not chain your heart. You are Stark and Targaryen, a child of two great lineages meant to unify. I see you forging your path. The old gods and the Force have guided you here. This island is a nexus. We come to help you if we can."

Jon closed his eyes, allowing a tear to slip free. He could hardly speak, overwhelmed by the moment. Then Shmi and Lyanna glanced at each other, exchanging a soft nod. Lyanna spoke to Anakin. "We have a memory to share with Jon, something from the past that might give him a final piece. Will you bear witness too?"

Anakin inclined his head, stepping aside with reverent awe. The forest dimmed around them, the stream's gurgle fading to a hush. All four found themselves standing in a swirl of greenish light. Then an image formed, as if they were stepping into a living dream.

They beheld a cozy chamber with a warm hearth, Rhaegar Targaryen sitting at a table. He had silver hair, calm violet eyes, wearing an elegant but simple tunic. Elia Martell stood behind him, a spirited woman with dark curls, holding a small child's hand. Another child babbled in a cradle. Lyanna—clearly pregnant—sat near them, laughing at something Rhaegar said. The scene glowed with domestic tranquility, a snapshot of an impossible time when no war overshadowed them.

Rhaegar spoke quietly, voice poetic. "If the prophecy is true, one of my children must stand against the coming darkness. Perhaps Aegon, or maybe the one yet unborn."

Elia teased him. "Oh, Rhaegar, your prophecies. You scrawl songs about them, pester us with gloom and hope in equal measure. We can't all be mythical heroes."

Lyanna patted her rounded belly. "Yes, or you might be wrong, and we'll raise these children to rule a peaceful realm. They'll never face war. Isn't that an option?"

Rhaegar smiled wryly. "That's my dream, truly. But if the prophecy is real, I must ensure they're prepared. They'll need something… an edge. And if I can't find the old crystals or artifacts—perhaps dragonsteel, dragonglass, something that resonates with them."

Elia set a hand on her eldest child's shoulder. "We'll believe in your songs, my prince. The realm might need a champion someday. Just be sure you also enjoy fatherhood now. Don't dwell too deep in prophecy."

Lyanna giggled, elbowing Rhaegar. "She's right. You can't shape destiny by gloom alone. Let the children shape their own future."

The vision shimmered, the four watchers—Jon, Anakin, Lyanna (ghost), Shmi—observing from the periphery. The memory exuded warmth, a fleeting happiness. Jon's chest ached, seeing his father, mother, and Elia not at each other's throats but united in some unconventional arrangement. They joked, teased, believed in a better realm. Then the image dissolved.

Lyanna's ghost placed a small bag in Jon's hand. He blinked, feeling genuine weight there. "We carried these shards for you, across time," she whispered. "A piece of dragonglass, once forged under strange conditions. Let them serve you as a power source. The old gods have blessed them."

Jon swallowed, opening the bag. Jagged fragments of obsidian glinted in his palm, black glass with faintly iridescent edges. He recalled how the Children of the Forest used dragonglass to fight the White Walkers. Could these shards power a lightsaber? His heart thudded. He took out one piece, pressing it to his unactivated hilt. Anakin watched intently, ghostly eyes bright with curiosity.

Jon detached the top of the cylinder, slotting in the shard. A subtle hum resonated as if the cylinder recognized the crystal. He inhaled, pressed the activation stud. A purple blade of coherent energy flared to life with a gentle hiss. Jon let out an astonished laugh, eyes wide at the shimmering violet glow. The reflection danced across the weirwood trunks. He cautiously swung the blade, feeling its weightless hum. It cut the air with that iconic lightsaber sound. Relief and triumph welled in him—Kyber crystals might be lost, but dragonglass apparently served as an alternative, thanks to the Force's blessing.

He smiled tearfully at Lyanna, who nodded in pride. "Go, my son. Carry my love with you. Rhaegar's dreams might come true in your hands."

Then Shmi turned to Anakin. Her expression brimmed with maternal warmth. "My dear boy, you've done enough. You redeemed yourself, aided Jon, shaped a new destiny. The Force calls you to rest. Join us in peace."

Anakin stiffened, tears in his eyes. "I'm not sure I deserve it. I caused so much pain in the past."

She shook her head, stepping closer. "We all have shadows. The Force forgives if we find balance. It's time you find rest, let go of guilt. Your loved ones want you free, at peace."

Anakin hesitated, but the swirl of unconditional love from Shmi, from the Force, overwhelmed him. He shut his eyes, tears slipping down his cheeks. "I… I will try," he whispered. Then he looked at Jon, voice trembling. "Thank you for letting me guide you, my friend. I see greatness in you. I… must return to the Force fully. Farewell."

Jon felt a wave of emotion flood him. "Thank you, Master. Everything I achieved is partly due to you." He bowed his head, tears shining.

Anakin closed his eyes, and with Shmi's gentle hand guiding him, he dissolved in a swirl of light, merging with the Force. The presence that had walked beside Jon for so long slipped away. Jon stood in reverent silence. Shmi then faded as well, giving him a final grateful smile. Only Lyanna remained for a heartbeat, gazing at him with infinite tenderness. "Remember, my son, you are loved," she whispered. Then she too vanished, leaving the clearing quiet.

Jon looked down at the lit lightsaber in his hand, its purple glow casting shimmering patterns on the grass. He exhaled shakily, feeling both emptiness and renewed purpose. "Mother… Anakin… thank you."

He sensed the forest settle around him, the wind rustling red leaves overhead. The moment passed, the spirits gone, the illusions faded, but the gift remained. He clipped the new purple-bladed saber at his belt, then realized with a jolt that he needed to find Arya. She might be lost or frightened. He turned, the adrenaline of the vision still thrumming in his veins. Letting the Force guide him, he backtracked through the labyrinth of roots and ancient trunks, calling Arya's name.

Eventually, near a wide clearing of weirwoods carved with countless faces, he found her. She sat hunched near a mossy trunk, shoulders shaking. Tear tracks glistened on her cheeks. She had parted from him somehow, perhaps led astray by the same mystical lure. Jon's chest constricted. "Arya?"

She looked up, eyes full of sorrow. "Jon? I… I saw them. Robb, mother, father… I saw them in my head, or something. The Force gave me a vision. I saw mother's face twisted in grief, cursing everything. I saw Robb crowned King in the North but bleeding on a battlefield. I— I don't even know if it's real."

Jon knelt, wrapping an arm around her. "Visions can be illusions or partial truths. The future, the past, or fears. The Force shows them sometimes. Doesn't mean it's set in stone."

Arya sniffled, leaning into his embrace. "I miss them. We left father in captivity, Sansa parted ways with us, Robb's out there fighting. Our family's so broken. And I thought… I'd feel better once I reached you, but I still feel lost."

Jon stroked her hair. "I understand. We are a family scattered by war. We can't fix everything at once, but trust me, we'll try. I have a plan to unify the realm and fight the real threat—White Walkers. We'll do it together."

She nodded slowly, wiping tears. "I believe you, Jon. Just… hold me, okay?"

He did, pulling her close, letting the hush of the old gods' isle surround them with a gentle hush. The purple lightsaber hung at his belt, a testament to the new powers he'd discovered. But in that moment, the greatest power was the warmth of comfort shared between siblings— or cousins—lost in a realm of chaos. He knew once they left the Isle, they'd face battles anew, forging alliances or contending with Westeros's madness. But for this brief time, he and Arya had each other, clinging to the love that bound them. The old gods and the Force had guided them here, to learn truths, to gain new strength. They wouldn't let that gift go to waste.

So they remained, kneeling on the mossy ground, the carved weirwood faces watching over them in silence, while a gentle wind sighed through the leaves like a tender lullaby.