A Requiem of Ash and Stars"
Chapter One: Death
Anakin Skywalker's breathing rasped, each wheeze echoing hollow and metallic through the black helm that had been part of his life for far too long. Yet now, that same mask lay discarded beside him as he lay on the cold metal floor of the Death Star's docking bay. Sparks rained from overhead conduits, flickering lights casting dancing shadows around father and son. Luke knelt at Anakin's side, his own face streaked with tears and soot. Outside the force field of the hangar, TIE fighters and Rebel ships waged desperate battles, but for Anakin, the world had narrowed to the boy kneeling before him.
"I can't leave you here," Luke pleaded. His voice trembled with a mix of grief and hope, as though he believed—perhaps foolishly—that if he just tried hard enough, he could carry his father to safety. The battered corridor behind them seemed to stretch on forever, punctuated by the flickering flames and the sparks of failing machinery. Each reverberation through the Death Star's hull threatened complete collapse, but Luke refused to abandon Anakin.
Anakin looked up at the young man who had fought so hard to redeem him, the son he had unknowingly driven himself to save. His once-fearsome eyes—eyes that had terrified foes across the galaxy—were now tinged with a gentle acceptance. In these final moments, the swirl of his life's regrets settled upon him, a shroud as heavy as the armor he had once worn.
"You already have…Luke…" he murmured. The utterance vibrated with the last vestiges of strength left in his broken body. Luke shook his head in protest, still unwilling to accept his father's fate, but a silent understanding was forming between them: this was the end for Anakin Skywalker.
The Death Star shook violently from another barrage. Flames licked at distant corridors, and structural supports began buckling. Alarms wailed, announcing the imminent destruction of this monstrous battle station, yet for a moment, it all fell away from Anakin's awareness. He felt only the warmth of Luke's presence.
The quiet hush of a paternal love, which he had denied himself for decades, whispered through him. A faint memory stirred—Padmé's face, her tears, her final plea. He recalled with clarity both the love they shared and the darkness that overshadowed it. He remembered the Jedi Temple, the shrieks of terror, the unthinkable actions he had once committed. Now, lying on the ground, each ragged breath pounding in his ears, he sensed a final chance to be free of it all.
"Tell your sister…you were right," he said, voice cracking. Anakin's trembling hand grazed Luke's cheek in a gesture as tender as a farewell could ever be.
Time slowed. Luke's anguished expression blurred before Anakin's fading gaze. He felt weightless, as though some intangible current pulled him from his broken mortal shell. At last, the pain ebbed to a distant echo. The dissonant cacophony of the Death Star's failing systems faded to a murmur, then vanished entirely.
He wasn't aware of the moment his eyes shut for the final time, nor of the moment his heart beat its last. He only knew there was no more breath, no more agony, and an unexpected sense of release. Something lifted him, freed him from the metallic confines of his ruined body. For the first time since childhood, he felt simple, unburdened…not as Darth Vader, not even as The Chosen One, but simply Anakin Skywalker.
Then, darkness.
He drifted through emptiness, the hush of oblivion so complete that he couldn't tell if it was a dream or something far more permanent. He neither floated nor fell; direction itself ceased to exist. It was a strange sense of calm that he had never quite known—a tranquil stasis where time had lost all meaning.
In this void, faint thoughts began to swirl. Voices, images, fractured echoes. Padmé's laughter. Obi-Wan's stern but compassionate instructions. Ahsoka's bright smile. Mace Windu's stony gaze. Palpatine's manipulative purr. And finally, Luke's unwavering faith. The swirl grew more intense until it was a veritable maelstrom of memory. Then, as though the intangible torrent had quieted all at once, Anakin realized he was alone.
Utterly alone.
He tried to move, but in this place, there was no moving. He tried to speak, but his words vanished into the silent expanse. A shiver of cold dread coursed through him. Was this his penance—to drift for eternity in a silent blackness, with nothing but his own regrets as company?
A wave of despair began coiling in his chest. He had once believed in the Force as an omnipresent field, a guide and ally. He had twisted it to his own ends, but in the end, the Force had also offered him redemption through his son. Was he now cast adrift, abandoned to nothingness?
Slowly, that despair simmered into anger. Anger at the injustice, anger at himself, anger at the choices that led him here. He felt that old, dangerous flicker in his heart—a menacing heat that licked at his thoughts and threatened to consume him. The Dark Side had always been seductive in its promise of control, and here, in the depths of isolation, it beckoned again.
Yet, just as swiftly as it arose, the anger receded beneath the memory of Luke's compassion. Luke, who had risked everything to reach him, to tell him he was still capable of good. The flame of darkness faltered, replaced by a faint echo of his son's unwavering faith. This tempered his rage, pressing it down and away. He would not succumb now.
He clung to that image of Luke, refusing the Dark Side's pull. As if in answer to this resolve, a presence began to stir in the dark. A whisper of energy swirled around him, dissolving the black nothingness. It felt like the Force, yet it also felt somehow…bigger. More direct. More ancient.
Gradually, Anakin realized he was no longer drifting but standing—or at least existing—in a place that stretched far beyond physical form. An empty, featureless plane of off-white, neither bright nor dark, lay beneath his feet. No shadows, no horizon.
He looked down at himself and saw that he was…whole. Not the mechanical limbs, not the scarred face hidden by the fearsome black mask—just a younger reflection of the man he once was, as if time had reversed his bodily ruin.
Here, there was no pain, no burning in his lungs. Shock surged in him. He flexed his fingers, reveling in their unscarred wholeness, but an uneasy question seized him: "Where am I?"
His voice echoed strangely. The white expanse offered no reply. Hours—days—perhaps eons could have passed in that silence. Loneliness and self-condemnation returned. Had this purity of emptiness been constructed specifically to mock him—a place of infinite whiteness to reflect the darkness inside him?
Would the Force do this to him as punishment for all he had done wrong?
Regrets flooded him: how he had failed Padmé, how he had failed his own mother, how he had failed the Jedi. He had betrayed the galaxy he swore to protect. He had brought terror to billions. The only atonement was his final act—saving Luke. But perhaps that wasn't enough.
"I deserve this," he breathed, breaking the silence with a trembling voice. "I deserve to be abandoned forever."
The emptiness swallowed his words without reply.
Yet doubt gnawed at him. Was he certain he was meant only for punishment? Hadn't the Force drawn him back to the Light in his last moments? Was there not some cosmic plan beyond retribution?
Anakin's mind churned. Frustration mounted. Confusion became anger again, that creeping, familiar rage that had destroyed so many parts of his life. In the endless white emptiness, with no one to guide him, he felt a flicker of that old lethal power well up within.
His hands balled into fists. Echoes of past illusions and grudges haunted him. He wanted someone—anyone—to answer for this. He wanted the Jedi Council to be accountable for how they had restricted him. He wanted Palpatine to pay for how he had manipulated him. More than anything, he wanted to rage at the Force for what felt like an impossible destiny thrust upon him from childhood.
The more he let that anger wash through him, the more the colorless plane seemed to darken, as if responding to his emotional state. But just as the momentum built, an unbidden memory of Luke's hopeful blue eyes anchored him.
No. That anger would solve nothing. He breathed, tried to recenter himself. "Luke believed in me," he whispered. "I won't betray that faith again."
Slowly, the shadows receded. The emptiness around him brightened. He began to wonder if the Force itself was listening.
Suddenly, a ripple coursed through the air, distorting the pristine expanse like a reflection upon water. Anakin froze. He sensed a presence coalescing, something neither dark nor light. A swirl of energies that seemed beyond the simplistic dualities of the Force as the Jedi or Sith had described it.
Where the white emptiness folded upon itself, a figure stepped forward. Cloaked, masked, yet undeniably resonant with the currents of the Force. Anakin sensed no hostility, only a vast power that dwarfed anything he had experienced—more expansive than Sidious's cunning darkness, more all-encompassing than Master Yoda's luminous presence.
He felt a slight tremor in his core, the awareness that he stood before something that was the Force in a truer sense than he had ever known.
The figure lifted its masked face. A mask reminiscent of antiquity, with angular lines and dark visor slits. Anakin recognized the style of an ancient Sith or Jedi from centuries past. Instantly, a name formed in his mind: Revan. Whether from the legends he had learned as a Jedi youngling or from some deeper universal knowledge, the identity was undeniable.
In a voice that was neither harsh nor gentle, the newcomer spoke, yet it was a voice that resonated from all around Anakin, the vocal cords only an afterthought. "Anakin Skywalker."
The mere utterance of his name made the whiteness around them quiver, as if the entire dimension acknowledged who he was.
For a moment, Anakin could only stare, speechless. He wondered if this was a trick of the Dark Side, but he sensed neither malevolence nor compassion—only raw, unfiltered energy.
"Who…are you?" he asked quietly.
The figure inclined its head. "An avatar," it said. "Call me Revan, for ease."
Anakin inhaled sharply, grappling to keep any latent fear or anger in check. "Revan… But Revan was a Jedi who fell to the Dark Side, then returned to the Light—your story is ancient history. Are you truly that same Revan?"
A soft, wry note entered the being's voice. "I am and I am not. The Force has worn many masks to communicate with those it chooses. Revan. Bendu. The Father of Mortis. Consider them all and none. For your sake, 'Revan' is the shape I take. Understand: I am the Force in its totality, beyond the boundaries of Light and Dark."
Anakin stood, uncertain whether to bow in reverence or keep his distance. "Why…why am I here?"
He braced for a condemnation, to be scorned for everything he had done. Instead, the being's tone was measured, devoid of mockery or blame. "You are here because your physical life ended. And I would speak with you."
Anakin's tension made every muscle rigid. "Then this is punishment? Or is it the final condemnation?"
"Punishment?" Revan's voice seemed mildly curious. "The Force does not exist to deliver punishment or reward, Anakin Skywalker. The Force is. You have judged yourself harshly already. Perhaps in ways you deserved—perhaps not. I have not come to deliver condemnation."
Confusion warred with hope in Anakin's heart. He began to pace, though he found the emptiness disconcerting, with no real ground or walls. "Then why? The Jedi always taught about a merging with the Force, yet here I am, aware, conscious. Surely this is not the fate that awaited the souls of all Jedi. So…why?"
There was a moment's pause, as if Revan was allowing him to release his confusion. "You were chosen, Anakin Skywalker. Chosen before your birth to bring balance to the Force. But the path you walked deviated from what was intended."
Anakin flinched, remembering the prophecy: the Chosen One who would destroy the Sith and bring balance. He had done so—he had killed Sidious, or at least delivered him to death. But was that truly the extent of the prophecy?
"If I was chosen, I failed," Anakin whispered. "I fell to the Dark Side. I…did terrible things."
"You did fail," Revan allowed. "But not because you were unworthy. You were shaped, manipulated by forces beyond your control—by the incomplete perspective of the Jedi, by the cunning of the Sith. The Jedi, bound by dogma, did not evolve in time to guide you. The Sith exploited your vulnerabilities. Your mother's death. Your fear of losing those you loved. The Jedi were not prepared to handle those passions, and the Sith took advantage."
Anakin felt tears burning in his eyes, tears he thought he had long lost the capacity to shed. "I don't want to make excuses. I should have been stronger."
"It was not solely a matter of personal strength." Revan's voice was empathetic now. "Even the mightiest can be undone when they stand alone against two flawed institutions. The Jedi revered detachment to an extreme. The Sith wallowed in passion and darkness to an extreme. You were placed between these extremes, with neither side offering a path that embraced your unique gifts and needs."
Suddenly, the whiteness around them swirled. Scenes materialized, vivid enough to make Anakin gasp. He saw a younger version of himself standing beside Mace Windu, lightsabers drawn, confronting a cackling Darth Sidious in the Chancellor's office. Except in this vision, Anakin did not intervene on Sidious's behalf. Instead, he joined Mace in subduing the Dark Lord.
Anakin watched wide-eyed as this alternate scenario unfolded: Sidious hurling lightning, Mace deflecting it with skill. He saw himself stepping in at the critical moment, not to sever Mace's hand, but to lend his own blade, pushing Sidious to defeat. A swirl of images followed—Sidious was dethroned and imprisoned or killed. The Republic, while shaken, was purged of the Sith's corruption.
He watched as the vision advanced: the Jedi Council recognized his actions, elevated him to Mastery. He saw images of the Temple, where he taught compassion, urging the Jedi to reconnect with the living Force in ways that embraced emotion rather than denying it. The entire Order grew more dynamic, more open, severing its entanglements in galactic politics.
Images flickered faster: he saw himself guiding the Jedi, bridging gaps, forging new philosophies that balanced passion with serenity. And after many years, he saw an even older version of himself—wiser, calmer—donning the mantle of Grand Master, with Yoda stepping aside peacefully. Under his leadership, the Jedi soared to new heights of unity and adaptability.
Then came darker visions—Abeloth, a twisted entity from beyond mortal comprehension, stirring in the depths of the Force. In these glimpses, the reformed Jedi faced Abeloth under Anakin's leadership. The final, breathtaking images showed him—this older Anakin—enveloped in radiant power, confronting Abeloth, driving back her madness, truly bringing balance to the Force.
The vision shattered, leaving Anakin gasping. The emptiness returned, silent and all-consuming, but his heart hammered with the enormity of what he had just witnessed.
"That…that was what I was meant to do?" he asked, voice trembling.
Revan inclined his head. "In a future untwisted by interference and tragedy, you and Mace Windu would have defeated Sidious at that pivotal moment. In that timeline, you would have restored the Jedi to their roots, removing them from the corruption of politics. You would have undone the dogma that stifled them. Eventually, you would have surpassed all who came before, even Yoda, and stood as Grand Master. In time, you would have guided the Order against Abeloth and permanently sealed her threat. All of this was within your grasp—within your destiny."
Sorrow crushed Anakin's chest. All the devastation he had wrought as Vader, all the suffering throughout the galaxy, contrasted mercilessly with this shining alternative. "I ruined it," he choked out. "I damned the entire galaxy. Luke…He tried to save me, but I was beyond redemption until the very end."
He sank to his knees, tears leaving silent trails down his cheeks. "Is all that lost now? There's no way to undo it…"
The emptiness stirred again. Another series of images flared. This time, it was Luke, older and stronger in the Force than Anakin had ever seen him. Luke stood with students at his side, forging a new Jedi Order. He overcame the ghosts of the Empire, the resurgence of darkness, the illusions of warlords. And eventually, he, too, fought Abeloth.
Anakin watched as Luke, in a desperate clash, managed to banish Abeloth temporarily, but at grievous cost. The cosmic abomination lingered, always threatening to return. He saw how Luke's Jedi, though valiant, would not have the power to permanently end Abeloth's threat. Over centuries, the conflict would escalate, culminating in the eventual devastation of entire galaxies.
Finally, Anakin witnessed a horrifying vision: Abeloth fully unleashed, her nightmarish presence devouring star systems in living darkness. Reality warped, teeming with monstrosities. There, in the flickering edges of the vision, he saw his own face, battered and regretful, as if the Force tried to remind him that none of this had to come to pass…if only events had followed their rightful course.
Tears blurred Anakin's sight. "Luke can't stop her alone," he murmured. "No matter how strong he becomes."
The vision ended, and the Force, through Revan, addressed him. "Your son's path is monumental, and he accomplishes much. But only you hold the key to truly defeating Abeloth. That was the design from the beginning. Luke can seal or confine her, but not destroy her essence. You, Anakin, were the being forged to do so."
Anakin's breathing grew ragged. "Is that…what's to come? She'll destroy everything, after all Luke's efforts?"
"If left unchallenged, eventually, yes," Revan replied. "Even Luke's victory over her is impermanent. Over time, her strength will grow again. She will twist new pawns to serve her, just as she has done to Sith of old—and as she will do to creatures beyond your galaxy."
A moment's pause, then Revan continued. "Do you see the necessity of your role?"
"Then I must return," Anakin stammered, rising abruptly. "Let me help fix this. If it's not too late, let me—"
But Revan held up a gauntleted hand. "It is precisely why I have come to you."
A flicker of hope ignited in Anakin's eyes. "You're letting me go back? Even after everything?"
The masked visage offered no outward emotion, but the voice was calm. "Be at peace, Anakin. Your actions in life, good or evil, are a tapestry woven into the Force. Nothing can erase that. But all living things can grow. The Force does not revolve around punishment. It seeks to restore balance."
Anakin's mind raced. "Then…what must I do?"
Revan motioned, and the emptiness shifted once more. Anakin saw a remote world, a place of towering ice walls and frigid landscapes. He saw a land of rolling green fields, scorching deserts, and turbulent seas. Castles rose from the horizon—imposing structures of stone and mortar that seemed medieval when compared to the technology he knew. And beyond, he sensed a deeper presence, a twisted abomination reminiscent of Abeloth.
In the vision, he saw a monstrous threat in the far north—a pale, unnatural figure crowned with ice. A legion of the dead followed. Then, a woman with hollow eyes, cloaked in perpetual darkness, commanded an endless winter. Abeloth, now the so-called Corpse Queen, lurking in a hidden fortress of ice and malice.
Revan's voice cut through the swirling imagery. "This planet is far outside the galactic map you knew. When Luke bested Abeloth, she fled to that realm, consolidating her power over centuries, twisting it into myth. She manipulated the being known as the Night King, forging an army of walking corpses. If left unchecked, they will bring about an endless winter—'The Long Night.' On that world, they call it the War for the Dawn."
Anakin's brow furrowed. "But…Abeloth can't be that weak. Even wounded, she's still a threat. The inhabitants of that planet—do they have the Force?"
"Some do," Revan acknowledged. "But they know it only as magic or mysteries of the Old Gods and R'hllor. They do not fully grasp the Force. Yet once, long ago, I guided a champion, Brandon Stark the Builder—Azhor Azhai. With the power of the Force, he raised the Wall, forging protections that drove back the Night King and his legion. Abeloth was forced to slumber, her power not yet replenished. But the time of her reemergence is at hand. She and the Night King will bring another Long Night. She will resume her quest for total domination—and from that world, she will spread outward if not truly defeated."
Anakin exhaled, trying to place the enormity of it all. "So I must go there? Destroy her once and for all?"
"Yes," Revan said. "She cannot be allowed to spread that darkness. Your destiny cannot be fully realized if you remain here in this purgatory. However, your time in your old form has ended. You died on the Death Star. Your body was no longer salvageable. But the Force can weave you anew."
Anakin's heart pounded with renewed purpose. "I'll do anything. My mistakes cost the galaxy too much already. If there is any chance to set it right…"
"There is a price," Revan cautioned. "And a method. You will not simply reawaken as Anakin Skywalker. You will be reborn."
"Reborn?" Anakin frowned, unsure if he truly grasped the concept.
Revan inclined his head. "On that world, you shall be known as Jon Snow, though your true name will be Jaehaerys Targaryen—a prince of House Targaryen. You will grow up believing yourself a bastard, ignorant of your lineage, though destiny will guide you. The Force will be with you, latent, until the appointed time. And you will face the darkness that Abeloth has fostered."
The idea of an entirely new life both startled and intrigued Anakin. "But…will I still be me? Will I remember everything?"
"There is more to it," Revan explained. "Your soul will be split in two. One part will live as Jon Snow, with only a vague sense of your identity as Anakin. The other half—you—will exist as a Force spirit. You will guide your reincarnation, shaping him so that he may surpass even your own potential."
Anakin stood silent for a long moment, absorbing the magnitude of it. To be reincarnated, to endure life anew, uncertain, perhaps repeating the anguish of not knowing his family. Yet the Force ghost portion of him could guide, teach, and ensure he—and thus the new vessel—did not repeat the same mistakes.
He swallowed, pushing aside the fear. "Will I be able to teach him the ways of the Force? Show him how to lead? And then…?"
Revan nodded. "Yes. As Jon Snow grows, you will be there in spirit, instructing him in lightsaber forms—though his sword will be forged of Valyrian steel—and teaching him the Force as best as he can understand it. You will teach him not only to be a warrior but a leader, a just king in the sense of that world's traditions. And once your task is done, the two halves of your soul shall reunite, leaving Jon Snow with the full power and memory of Anakin Skywalker. It will be then that you truly face Abeloth—corporeal and unstoppable in her returning might."
Anakin's gaze dropped, the immensity of the plan heavy upon him. "I understand."
Yet a thread of doubt plagued him. "I couldn't save my mother. I couldn't save Padmé. I couldn't even protect the Jedi from themselves. What if I fail again?"
Revan lifted a hand, the Force swirling gently around them. "Failure is always a possibility. But redemption is the power to rise above it. You have already chosen the Light anew in your last living moments. In this new life, you will have the guidance to avoid the pitfalls that once ensnared you."
Something in Revan's tone warmed. "Also, you will not walk alone. There will be allies on that world—fierce warriors, cunning advisors, and those with their own unshakable sense of honor. You will forge bonds that will help you stand firm where once you fell."
Anakin closed his eyes. He saw Luke's face in his mind. "What about Luke?" he asked, voice subdued. "He will be left without me."
"In your galaxy, Luke will flourish. He will rebuild the Jedi. He will eventually confront Abeloth as you saw, and he will temporarily drive her back. Without you, that is all he can do. With you reborn, you shall finish what must be done. Your son will sense your presence in the Force across great distances of space and time. He will not be alone."
A wave of relief seeped into Anakin's heart. Luke would be all right, forging his own destiny, even without his father physically by his side.
In the emptiness, the swirling energy intensified, as if the entire realm was bracing for an act of creation. Revan's masked visage seemed to glow with an inner brilliance. "It is time, Anakin Skywalker. Will you accept this path?"
Anakin exhaled, calmer than he had felt in a long while. "Yes. If there's a chance to save that world, and to stop Abeloth from ever returning to ours…I will do it."
Revan lifted a hand, and the whiteness around them rippled with unstoppable force. "Then let it be so."
Anakin braced himself, uncertain what this transition would feel like, but determined.
Radiant light burst forth, flooding his senses. He felt the Force envelop him from every side, a hurricane of power. The foundation of his being trembled, and he could sense his soul being carefully, delicately split, as though by a scalpel of cosmic energy. He did not feel agony—rather, an acute awareness of division, as if one part of him was gently pulled away, leaving a presence behind.
This is what it meant to be two halves of the same soul—Anakin the guide, and Jon Snow the living incarnation.
For a moment, Anakin could see them both: a newborn child in a distant land, and a luminous Force specter shaped in his own image. The swirl of energy crescendoed, and then a hush descended.
Pain blossomed in his chest, not physical but spiritual, as the Force hammered the final nails into this cosmic forging. He tried to cry out, but no sound emerged. Vision flickered. The whiteness dissolved, replaced by swirling darkness and then fleeting specks of light, like stars in the night sky.
He felt himself drifting downward. The swirling cosmos gave way to a new reality, the intangible plane of purgatory vanishing behind him.
Anakin's awareness as a Force spirit floated, timeless, bound to the child that was now crying somewhere in the bitter cold of a northern tower. Snow battered stone walls. A howling wind tore at cloth, as a man with haunted grey eyes reached for the infant.
Yet Anakin was also in that infant, the other half of his soul. Eyes scrunched against the world's brightness, a trembling chest drawing first breaths in an unfamiliar realm.
Like a thousand knives of icy wind, the new environment cut deep. In these first cries, the baby's life began. A fierce woman with silver-gold hair lay dying, her face streaked with the sweat of labor, whispering names. Another figure, regal and desperate, tried to comfort her.
"Lyanna," the regal man said, voice trembling, "please…please don't go…"
She only managed a faint smile. "Promise me, Ned…" she rasped.
This was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. He clasped her hand with sorrowful tenderness.
Lyanna parted her lips. "His name…is…Jaehaerys Targaryen," she breathed, urgent, as if she knew time was short.
"His name…is…Jaehaerys Targaryen," Lyanna Stark breathed, urgent, as if she knew time was short. She clutched at Eddard's hand with surprising force, her own trembling under the weight of her final plea.
Anakin—half of his soul manifesting as a silent Force presence—hovered close, unseen by either mortal. He felt the raw agony in Lyanna's shallow gasps and the swirl of grief in Eddard Stark's eyes. There was no comfort he could extend; he could only watch, bound by this new reality.
Lyanna's grip faltered. Her voice turned weaker, rasping on every syllable. "Promise me, Ned… Promise me you will protect him… Promise me…"
She fell back against the sweat-soaked pillows, her eyelids fluttering with the last sparks of life. Eddard's eyes brimmed with tears, though he held her hand firmly. "I promise," he whispered, voice shaking. "On my honor… I will keep him safe."
Lyanna's lips curved into the faintest smile, relief mingling with sorrow in her final breath. Then her head lolled to the side, the tension draining from her face. The silence that followed was suffocating, punctured only by the infant's cries.
Anakin, unable to intervene, felt his heart twist. Another mother lost—a pattern echoing his own tragedies. Though he did not know Lyanna as he had known his own mother, the pain of her death tugged at old wounds. Helplessly, he hovered in that chamber, the babe's cries reverberating through him like a distant thunder.
Eddard bent over his sister's still form, pressing his forehead to hers, tears tracking silently down his cheeks. The vow he had made would shape the life of the newborn now wailing in the cold air of the tower. Anakin sensed the Force swirling around that tiny body—Jon Snow, Jaehaerys Targaryen, the other half of his own fractured soul.
Time shifted. The next instant, Anakin found himself in a new location—Dorne, land of sun-scorched hills and bright, blooming flowers. Despite the warmth and color of the palace at Sunspear, a pall of sorrow lay over the courtyard.
Eddard Stark arrived, solemn and grim, his face lined with guilt and mourning. Close by, a woman with dark, haunting eyes stood apart from the bustle. Her posture was regal, but heartbreak radiated from her in crushing waves. Anakin recognized her name whispered in the Force: Ashara Dayne.
Only fragments of the truth drifted before Anakin's gaze, but enough to understand: Eddard had killed her brother, Ser Arthur Dayne, in the final days of the rebellion. Ashara had lost not just a brother but a child she once carried—Ned Stark's child—stillborn in the chaos of war. And now Ned himself was married to another woman far away in the North.
Eddard tried to speak with her. She turned a tear-streaked face toward him, eyes echoing an agony so deep that Anakin felt its stab as though it were his own.
Ashara's words came low and hollow, laced with bitterness: "You've come to return Arthur's sword to our family—yet it cannot bring him back. It cannot bring my child back."
Ned bowed his head, unable to counter her grief. "I am sorry," he said finally, voice weighted with regret. "I wish… I wish things could have been different."
She gave a mirthless laugh, each syllable steeped in sorrow. "Wishes do nothing for the dead."
That night, Ashara moved quietly through the halls, the moonlight outlining her pale face. She carried no torch. Eddard, weighed by duty, slept in a guest chamber. None saw Ashara slip away toward the sea cliffs.
But Anakin saw. Bound in intangible form, he followed her steps, sensing the crushing grief that pressed her forward, past a low garden wall, toward the dizzying drop into crashing waves. He yearned to stop her, to cry out—but no sound would leave his spectral throat.
Ashara paused at the cliff's edge, tears gleaming in the moonlight. She whispered words lost to the wind, then stepped beyond.
Anakin's being reeled in horror, recalling the countless moments he had been too late to save someone he cared for—even if he'd only glimpsed Ashara's pain from afar, it tore at him now. There was no serenity in her passing, only despair.
When the sun rose over Dorne, Ashara's body was found at the water's edge, battered by the sea. Eddard Stark stood by grimly, heartbreak adding to his existing burdens. Anakin lingered in the background, silent witness to yet another tragic loss in the wake of rebellion's victory.
Time lurched again, and Anakin was pulled to King's Landing—a city of winding streets and polished spires that reeked of ambition. He found himself in the Red Keep's throne room, swirling with lords, ladies, and courtiers. Ned Stark stood off to one side, taut with tension.
At the far end of the hall, Robert Baratheon sat heavily upon the Iron Throne. Crowned by victory, his broad face was flushed with wine and triumph. Whispers of children murdered in the Sack of King's Landing flitted through the air—a crime committed in Robert's name by men seeking favor. Anakin watched as Eddard confronted Robert in private, voice low and urgent.
"They were children, Robert. And you reward the men who butchered them?" Eddard's face was dark with anger, grief still raw.
Robert, draped in rich furs and gold, glowered back. "This is war, Ned. Targaryen brats… they'd have grown up to challenge my throne."
Ned's fists clenched. "They were babes. Helpless. This is not the king I thought you'd be."
Robert scoffed, slamming a metal cup onto the armrest. "I won't punish loyal men for what was, in the end, a necessary deed."
The tension crackled. Anakin felt it echo across the Force—the same frustration he had once felt with self-righteous leaders who justified atrocity in the name of order.
Ned, disgust etched on his features, turned on his heel. "You can keep your throne," he snarled. "I'll return to Winterfell."
Robert shouted after him, but Ned was already gone. Men parted as the Lord of Winterfell strode out. In the corridor beyond, Eddard pressed a trembling hand to his brow, sorrow layering over fury.
Anakin, hovering unseen, felt echoes of his own disillusionment in Ned's retreat—memories of broken trust, once so many years ago. The swirl of it all left him unsettled, wishing he could speak directly to this honorable man, advise him on the perils of letting good men get lost in corrupted wars. But his role now was to watch—until the time came to guide Jon.
Three years passed like swirling autumn leaves. Anakin found himself observing the quiet corners of Winterfell, that ancient castle of the North. The cold walls, the flickering hearths, the half-lit corridors… Within them, he watched a small boy with dark hair and solemn grey eyes: Jon Snow.
True to his vow, Eddard Stark had brought Jon north, claiming him as his own bastard. Yet the distance between father and son was unmistakable. Eddard's sense of duty seemed to strangle his ability to show affection. As for Catelyn Stark, her resentment burned fierce. In her eyes, Jon was living evidence of a betrayal, and though she never physically harmed him, her coldness was as biting as the northern winds.
Anakin stood in dim corners, wanting to intervene whenever he saw the child flinch under Catelyn's distant gaze. Yet Jon never complained—he simply lowered his eyes and endured. The North tolerated him, but it offered no warm embrace, and no one defended him against the slights of Catelyn Stark's whispers.
One harsh winter, when Jon was about three, a terrible sickness swept through Winterfell. Children coughed in their beds, feverish and weak. Jon was not spared. He lay in a drafty side chamber, sweat beading on his brow, breath rasping in shallow gasps.
Late one night, Anakin sensed the boy's life flickering like a guttering candle. Pale and trembling, Jon coughed violently, tears leaking from half-lidded eyes. In the hallway, Catelyn prayed in hushed, fervent tones—not for Jon's recovery, but for the gods to "take away the stain on this family."
A flare of anger ignited in Anakin's chest. He had known cruelty before, but to sense such cold hostility aimed at an innocent child cut him deeply. If he had the power to help, he would not stand idle.
He moved to Jon's bedside, letting the Force flow through him. Though only half a soul bound in spirit form, Anakin had learned from Obi-Wan and from his own experiences that compassion was often the key to channeling the Light. Placing a ghostly hand over the child's brow, he focused.
A soft glow shimmered where Anakin's hand overlapped Jon's fevered skin. The Force stirred within Jon—latent power responding to Anakin's call. It was delicate, like coaxing a flame from dying embers. Anakin poured his intent into that flame, urging life rather than allowing the sickness to claim the boy.
Jon's breathing steadied. The fever began to break. Throughout the castle, no one was aware of the miracle unfolding in that lonely chamber. But Anakin could feel it: the faint heartbeat growing stronger, the ragged gasps smoothing out into easier breaths.
Slowly, the glow faded. Anakin withdrew, trembling in relief. Despite his intangible form, he felt drained—yet satisfied. The child he was destined to guide was safe.
Dawn touched the sky, faint sunlight creeping through the small window. Jon stirred, eyes fluttering open. He felt weak but no longer feverish. He blinked, adjusting to the dimness of the room.
At first, he thought he was alone. Then he noticed a strange shape near the foot of the bed—a tall figure, faintly shimmering in the early light. Jon's heart thudded in confusion and alarm.
He pushed himself up on one elbow. "Who…who's there?"
The figure moved closer, resolving into a man in simple robes, blond hair ruffled. He had no real substance—Jon could see the outline of the chamber's far wall through his body. Yet the man's eyes were kind, and a small smile curved his lips.
Anakin inclined his head, voice low and gentle. "Hello there."