Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and all rights for characters, plots and settings belong to G.R.R. Martin and FromSoftware. I have no ownership.
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"At the start, they were not much of a threat to speak of, but once the Jedi Revan had taken charge, things began to turn against us. The Republic fleets began to use more than just basic tactics. Feints, counterattacks, mass deceptions. Revan was a genius on the field. Revan abandoned worlds of their defenders so that others would be too fortified to strike, and was willing to make sacrifices in order to advance goals. And in the end, Revan proved too much for us."
"Revan's strategies and tactics defeated the best of us. Even Mandalore himself was taken aback by the ferocity of his attacks, the tenacity of his defenses and the subtlety of his plans. Revan fought us to a standstill and then began pushing back. We didn't really have a chance.
"Only Revan was worthy of our respect. We swept throughout the Outer Rim without opposition—until Revan assumed command of the Republic forces. Only then did the battle turn."
Canderous Ordo, Mandalore the Preserver
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There is no ignorance; there is knowledge.
There is no fear; there is power.
I am the Heart of the Force.
I am the revealing fire of Light.
I am the mystery of Darkness
In balance with Chaos and Harmony,
Immortal in the Force.
Je'daii Order Code
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"I've got some questions about the war." Revan didn't need to clarify; for Canderous there was only one war that mattered. He and Revan had fought on opposite sides, mortal enemies who knew each other only by reputation long before they joined forces against Malak and became friends.
"Not much to say. We lost. You won," Canderous said with a shrug. "We thought we could conquer the Republic, but instead we ended up a broken people."
He spoke with a casual indifference, but Revan knew him well enough to sense the bitterness and regret behind his words. The Mandalorians had been a proud and noble culture, fighting battles to win honor and glory; now the clans were scattered across the galaxy, reduced to working as mercenaries and thugs for the highest bidder.
Revan didn't like bringing up such a painful topic, but there was information he needed, and he felt this was the only way to get it.
"There's one thing I never understood about the Mandalorian Wars," he pressed. "What started them? Why, after all these centuries, did you suddenly decide to launch an all-out attack on the Republic?" "It was Mandalore's idea."
Revan knew that Canderous wasn't referring to the original founder of his people. For centuries, each successive leader of the Mandalorian clans had symbolically taken up the name of Mandalore as a way to simultaneously honor his cultural heritage and reinforce his own authority.
To distinguish among rulers, each chose an honorific to define his or her reign, such as Mandalore the Conqueror or Mandalore the Indomitable. The most recent ruler had called himself Mandalore the Ultimate.
"Mandalore felt the Republic was weak," Canderous continued. "Vulnerable. He summoned the warriors of the clans, and we followed him into what we thought would be our greatest conquest."
There was no need to ask if Canderous or any of his fellow warriors had hesitated. When Mandalore called, the clans answered. While there might be battles and disputes among those seeking to be Mandalore's successor when he fell, once the decision was made there was never any dissent or debate.
"Things were going fine until you came along," Canderous said with a grim smile. "You and your followers turned the entire tide of the war against us. Eventually you killed Mandalore, and everything changed."
Revan couldn't actually remember any of his battles against the Mandalorians; they were buried in the part of his mind that had been locked away when the Jedi Council turned him against Malak. But he had studied up on his own history enough to fill in the missing details from Canderous's narrative.
In battle after battle, Revan had led the Jedi and Republic forces to victory. Realizing defeat was inevitable, Mandalore the Ultimate had challenged Revan to single combat, and Revan had accepted.
Though the Mandalorian fought valiantly, in the end he was no match for the Jedi Order's most powerful champion. But it wasn't enough for Revan to simply defeat his enemy. In Mandalorian culture, the death of one leader was merely an opportunity for another warrior to seize control of the clans by claiming the fallen Mandalore's helmet.
To prevent this, Revan had stripped the helmet from his vanquished foe's corpse and hidden it on an unknown world. For a warrior culture defined and bound by tradition and honor codes, the loss of Mandalore's Mask was a crippling blow. Denied the sole item recognized as the symbol of leadership, the Mandalorians could not choose a new Mandalore.
With no universally acclaimed ruler, the various clans began to fight among themselves for power. Their armies became fragmented and ineffective, and within weeks a series of decisive victories by Revan's troops forced the Mandalorians to accept an unconditional surrender.
The humiliating defeat and the loss of Mandalore's Mask destroyed the once proud culture. Canderous had spoken of this once during the time they'd spent together stopping Malak. Surprisingly, he didn't blame Revan for what had become of the Mandalorians.
He blamed Mandalore for not being strong enough to win their battle; he blamed the brothers and sisters of his clan for being too weak to pick up the pieces so they could rebuild their society. But mostly, he just didn't talk about it.
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Kings Landing, Red Keep
Year 298 AC
Raevan Targaryen
The memory of last night's dream kept returning to him, even now, as he needed to calmly analyze the fight raging in front of him.
He watched a rather impressive exchange of blows between Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime, but his thoughts kept returning to his conversation with his friend Canderous. Both the Mandalorian's words and Revan's own thoughts during that conversation brought back a wealth of other memories and knowledge.
He recalled how brutal and ruthless he could be, not only during those wars, but many times afterward. Moreover, he realized he was still the same man.
With each memory that returned, he seemed less like the young prince and more like that ancient, powerful warrior, a master of the Force, and a brilliant and pragmatic commander.
But that shouldn't have surprised him at all. The less than fifteen years he'd spent as Raevan Targaryen couldn't compare to the hundreds of years he'd spent as Revan, Heart of the Force.
He began to notice even small habits that Ravan possessed but Raevan Targaryen didn't. For example, his constant probing of his surroundings with the Force. Just a few days ago, he hadn't done this, but yesterday he'd caught himself doing it several times. Today, it had become a natural occurrence.
The changes taking place within him were faster and more drastic than he had initially expected, yet he felt no anxiety about them; on the contrary, everything finally seemed as it should be.
The same couldn't be said for how his family perceived his changes. Perhaps if they had been more distant or had a colder relationship, things would have been different. However, they were too close and knew him too well to miss the subtle changes, imperceptible to strangers.
His father and great-uncle Aemon knew what was happening to him, but his mother, Ellia, and grandmother were clearly worried. Rhaenys and Daenerys often looked at him suspiciously, as if trying to solve a puzzle.
At least the twins were too young to notice anything, and Aegon clearly took that as another element of being brilliant and exceptionally mature for his age.
While his thoughts were wandering, the duel ended, ending with Ser Barristan winning 5 to 3.
He rose slowly from the marble bench he was occupying, organizing his thoughts and looking at Arthur with a challenging smirk.
Whispers of excitement spread around them. Sword of the Morning, the best swordsman in Westeros, perhaps even in the whole world, Raevan could believe. Opposite him, a prince who hadn't even celebrated his 15th name day yet and whose talent, according to many, was greater than the knight's.
The Red Keep Training Ground was large enough to accommodate several dozen guards training at once, and the surrounding cloisters and balconies could accommodate hundreds more spectators.
It wasn't usually this crowded, but Raevan himself and the Kingsguard usually preferred to train in the smaller training ground near the White Sword Tower.
For this reason, many members of the court, servants, guards, and guests from both within and outside Westeros, led by members of the royal family, were gathered here at that moment. They were eager to see the Kingsguard and the young prince in action, especially since it had been announced that he would be participating in the upcoming tournament.
Raven walked over to the rack of training swords and grabbed one, weighing it in his hand. 'That'll do,' he thought, then stepped onto the hard-packed training ground, stopping a few meters from Arthur, who was already waiting for him.
The knight nodded and gave him a small smile, but a moment later his face transformed into a mask of absolute concentration. The man sensed that this duel would be different from the previous ones.
Willem Darry, the old master-at-arms, raised his hand. "Ready?" he asked. When both raised their weapons, he ordered, "Let the combat commence."
Arthur assumed a defensive stance and waited, while Raevan adopted a slightly modified Seven Form, Juyo, called the Way of the Vornskr or the Ferocity Form, which focused on utilizing bold, direct movements that were both paradoxical and unpredictable.
Raevan, however, overlooked the most important element of this form, which required a high degree of internal focus and displayed its greatest potential when its user actively drew upon the Force.
However, he had already decided that this was to be a duel of pure skill. He didn't even feel the need to increase his strength or speed through the Force, because in recent months, and especially in the last few weeks, the more he used it, the more his body adapted to it, becoming stronger in every aspect.
He took a single steady breath, and the world around them momentarily froze. Then he launched himself into the attack, reaching Arthur in a few quick strides, raining down a barrage of slashes and thrusts, each one increasingly ferocious.
From the knight's gaze, Raevan could see that he had surprised him and that the man had not expected such boldness or fighting style. In fact, this was the first time he had used the Juyo Form in sparring since his rebirth.
Until now, he had mostly used Shii-Cho or Makashi. The former was formulaic and simple, the latter elegant and precise, the complete opposite of the incredibly aggressive and unpredictable Juyo.
Arthur couldn't have been prepared for such an aggressive attack, and it was obvious, as Raevan visibly began to push him back.
Gasps and whispers of surprise echoed around them, but no one raised their voices, all focused on the spectacle before them. Despite his concentration on the fight, he simultaneously sensed the excitement, jealousy, and a whole range of other emotions flowing from those present.
The clatter of clashing swords filled the entire square, constantly picking up speed. Just as his mind had all the experience of hundreds of years of combat and the mastery he had achieved, his new muscles had to learn all of this.
With each subsequent blow, he gained more confidence and accuracy, but the same could be said of Arthur, who, not without reason, was considered the greatest swordsman. The man had already begun to adapt to his new form of combat.
Raevan had to admit he was impressed. Their blades practically seemed like smudges. A small smile spread across his face, and his opponent responded in kind.
He had to admit he hadn't expected to encounter such a warrior on such a backward world. In his personal opinion, Arthur was on par with the greatest non-Force-using warriors in the galaxy, a feat considering that some races were exceptionally gifted physically, such as the Wookiees.
But at this moment, defeating Raevan might not be enough, for this fight was what he needed to not only remember but finally feel what it was like to be the greatest warrior in the galaxy.
Was that an arrogant statement? Perhaps, but even if it hadn't been entirely true in his previous life, he intended to make it so in this one.
All his experiences, serving both the Light and Dark Sides of the Force, being imprisoned and tortured by Vitiate, the separation of his soul, his union with the Force, and all the rest—were meant to rebirth him, and perhaps that was exactly what had happened.
Kreia had once compared him to the heart of the Force; perhaps this was his destiny, and this second chance he had been given was meant to serve that purpose. The thought filled him with growing excitement.
And he involuntarily reached for the Force, using one of the techniques that came as naturally to Revan as breathing, precognition. It was a mere glimpse of the future, just a few exchanged blows forward. Yet it was enough for his mind to reflexively follow the vision, as it had tens of thousands of times before.
The first blow struck the Kingsguard in the thigh, the second in the side, the third left a gash on his cheek with its blunt blade, the fourth struck him in the shoulder, and the fifth finally struck his hand, knocking the training sword from his grasp.
Around them, complete silence fell, as if everyone was trying to comprehend what had happened. Arthur himself stared at him with a mixture of disbelief and admiration.
Around them, those present began shouting his name excitedly, whether from genuine joy or trying to gain something from it.
"First strike for Prince Raevan." Ser Willem announced proudly, feeling as if he had a hand in this achievement. As Master-at-Arms, he had, after all, been the first Swordmanship instructor for him and his brother.
"When you're ready, we can con…" the man added a moment later, but Ser Barristan interrupted him mid-sentence.
"Five strikes for the prince. The fight's over," the old knight said, his voice suggesting he still found it hard to believe.
"Forgive me, Ser Barristan, but what do you mean? The prince hit Ser Arthur in the hand; that's one strike," Ser Willem replied, frowning in confusion.
Barristan Selmy stepped forward a bit, shaking his head, then approached Arthur and pointed to the places where Raevan had struck the Kingsguard. "Thigh, side, cheek, shoulder, and hand. In a second, Prince Raevan hit Ser Arthur five times. Improbable, almost imperceptible, yet that's what I saw."
Arthur nodded, wiping the blood running down his cheek with his finger. "Ser Barristan's right. I lost," he admitted in disbelief, looking at his protégé in shock, but he wasn't alone.
His family, along with several others, came forward to congratulate him and express their admiration.
"Raev. Since when are you better than Arthur?" Rhaenys ran to him, disregarding etiquette, and the twins followed, their eyes practically glowing with excitement.
Though it didn't turn out as he'd planned, the result spoke for itself. He knew his skills and experience were slowly returning, but he couldn't deny that Force was an essential part of him.
"Apparently, from now on," he replied, turning to his sister with a smirk, earning him a small punch in the side. "Smartass."
Before he could react, he found himself in his mother's arms. Well, Lyanna Stark was just as concerned with etiquette as his sister.
Her face beamed, and her eyes filled with pride. "My little boy. I knew you'd get the better of Arthur sooner or later."
Raevan laughed lightly, allowing himself to be kissed on the cheek by her, though he had to admit that, even though he loved his mother, he felt a little embarrassed. He glanced at his father, standing on the balcony above with Ellia, who, seeing his gaze, smiled in response, rolling his eyes slightly.
Aye, they both loved this often hyperactive, impulsive woman who disregarded most principles.
His father was also clearly proud, but Raevan could sense the thoughts troubling the king's mind, as he didn't fully understand what was happening to his son. Was he still dealing with his child or with the old wizard from the stars who had repressed his mind?
Raevan wasn't surprised by this reasoning. Even he couldn't quite put his finger on what was happening to him, even though he had the knowledge of entire interstellar civilizations and the Force.
He often found himself regretting that, as a child who didn't understand what was happening to him, he had admitted to his visions. And even if he had no control over them, he could have told his father as much as his mother and the others. Instead, terrified, he confessed that the visions brought him not only knowledge but also memories of another life.
"Here, Raev. Dry your face," Daenerys said, approaching him and holding out a damp cloth, which made him smile.
"Thanks, Dany," he replied, taking it and wiping his face, neck, and arms. Daenerys was mindful as always. His aunt, though slightly younger than him, was probably the most mature of the younger members of their family, excluding him, of course.
Moreover, she was one of the most empathetic people he had ever met, often devoting her time to helping the poor of Flea Bottom, especially the children. And while Raevan had provided the money, she was the initiator and nominal head of the three orphanages they had established in King's Landing.
And where Raevan had done all this out of both sympathy and pragmatism, hoping it would yield benefits in the future, Daenerys was guided by pure empathy and a desire to help. Yes, his aunt was the kindest soul in their family, and he only hoped that the future would not change her.
Arthur approached him, already completely resigned to his new reality, a small smile on his face, the kind he reserved for moments when the Dornishman was particularly pleased with something.
Raevan's gaze fell on the kingsguard's wrist, which seemed swollen, but when Arthur caught his gaze, he shook his head and said, "Don't worry, my prince. It will heal soon."
Raevan raised his eyebrows in disbelief and replied, leaving no room for argument, "Don't be silly, Arthur. Come to my chambers later. I'll take care of it... It's an order."
The man only bowed slightly. "As you command, Your Highness," he replied with a slight smirk, then immediately added, completely serious. "Allow me to congratulate you. I assume you've acquired a new fighting style? I don't remember the last time I've been so pushed into defense."
Raevan shrugged. "What can I say, my dear Arthur... you should get used to it. It'll only get worse." A small smile crept across his face. "Maybe you're getting old?"
Arthur just smiled back and shook his head in resignation.
"Raev. It's my turn, come on," came his sister's voice from behind him, who had already grabbed a practice spear.
"It's not fair. We want to too," Daeron cried, his voice tearful.
"Mother. Tell Raevan to fight us," Visenya added pleadingly, tugging on their mother's sleeve.
Lyanna sighed, "Not now, and not here. You're too young." Then, looking at him, she added, "Your brother will fight you later, okay?"
Seeing the twins' unconvinced expressions, he quickly nodded. "Exactly. We'll fight later and even drag Rhaenys into it," he promised, then followed his half-sister to the center of the training ground.
The others began to make room for them. He had a feeling he'd be spending more time here than he'd originally planned.
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Essos, Braavos of the Hundred Isles
A few moons earlier
Parquello Vaelaros
After many moons of tiring sailing and visiting all the daughters of Valyria along the way, Parquello finally stood before a black-and-white gate made of weirwood and ebony.
Although this place wasn't his initial destination, everything changed when, while in Myr, he received a letter from his mentor and ally from the Tiger faction, Malaquo Maegyr, who was also one of the Triarchs.
Their plans had been in motion for over two years, but it was only during his visits that he slowly finalized everything. The growing commercial power of Westeros had shaken the relatively stable status quo.
Of course, they themselves were also responsible for this; for example, those fools from the Elephants faction, who saw no problem in buying new, better, and cheaper glass from the Western Continent at the expense of Myr. The same applied to the exceptionally high-quality steel and many other products.
In their shortsightedness, they failed to see that the Seven Kingdoms weren't Myr or Qohor, merely individual cities. No, Westeros was a behemoth with near-infinite resources that couldn't be controlled or intimidated. Especially not now that those damned Targaryens were regaining control of their kingdom.
Taking a final deep breath, he pulled the hood of his cloak tighter, then, step by step, approached the door of one of the most terrifying places in the known world: the House of the Black and White.
But before he could knock, or even touch it, the fourteen-foot gates swung open. Lighter than they had any right to, given their undoubted mass.
A dark corridor, several feet wide, lit only by a single torch burning in the blue flame, appeared before him.
Swallowing nervously, he took one step into the darkness, then another. His only consolation was that he was clearly expected.
To his surprise, the corridor wasn't long, only perhaps forty feet, for soon it opened into a larger chamber. However, before he could enter, a hooded figure appeared from nowhere a few steps ahead of him.
"You are far from the home, Parquello Vaelaros," a low, distinctly male voice said. And though calm, it seemed to pierce his mind like hundreds of needles.
"H-how do you know my name?" he rasped, a distinct note of terror creeping into his voice. No one but he and Malaquo knew the reason for their journey to Braavos, not even his ship's captain and crew. The letter arrived sealed, and he later burned it.
"You wish us to offer a gift from the Many-Faced God to the young prince, do you not?" the hooded man spoke again, leaving him stunned.
"Y-yes. Can you do that?" he asked, hope filling him for the first time since receiving the letter. Faceless Men usually refused commissions unless it was their god's "will."
The man remained silent, and Parquello felt sweat trickling down his forehead, and not because of the high humidity or heat. Finally, the Faceless Man replied, "Just a few hours ago, the answer would have been no. However, the Many-Faced God desires the prince's death."
Parquello Vaelaros breathed a sigh of relief, feeling satisfaction and pride in his completed task slowly fill him.
"T-that's good. Name your price, then."
"5 million gold honors," came the reply, and Parquello felt his knees weaken. It was a huge sum, he carried perhaps a tenth of that, but it was intended to be used to buy ships from Braavos.
The Faceless Man cocked his head to the side. "Is that too much? We can always refuse, especially since we require payment upfront."
"No, no... you'll have the gold soon," he assured hastily, his mind scrambling to think of a way to get that kind of coins quickly. His only hope lay in his allies in Pentos. Yes, yes... He had to return to Illyrio as soon as possible.