The stars stretched infinitely across the void of space, silent and unyielding. Sajar, once known as Darth Sajar, a Sith Lord and now a warrior seeking redemption, sat alone in the cockpit of his shuttle. The soft hum of the ship’s systems was the only sound, a quiet counterpoint to the turmoil in his mind.
As he travelled Sajar carried the weight of a lifetime of choices—some honorable, most damning. His journey had taken him across the galaxy, from the burning deserts of Korriban to the gleaming spires of Coruscant, yet here he was, chasing ghosts aboard a vessel no one dared approach. He was a man who had once believed in the Sith doctrine of power and domination but had abandoned it in pursuit of balance.
His face, lined with experience, bore scars that told a story of violence and survival. His brown streaked hair was tied back tightly, and his robes—simple brown and white, unadorned—spoke of practicality rather than allegiance. His lightsaber a violet blade, rested on the console before him. The weapon’s unique hue reflected Sajar himself: a rare fusion of Jedi and Sith philosophies, neither fully light nor dark.
Ahead, the airship loomed in the void. It was a beast of a vessel, its jagged black hull bristling with weaponry and shields. The ship, known as Malice Ascendant, was not just a weapon; it was a statement. It had left Republic fleets in ruins and entire systems crippled. And aboard it were three Sith Lords, each more ruthless than the last.
Sajar’s eyes narrowed as he studied the ship. He could feel the Sith Lords’ presence through the Force—a heavy, malevolent pressure that seemed to choke the very air. They knew he was coming.
“This ends tonight,” he whispered, his voice calm but resolute.
With a flick of his wrist, Sajar activated the shuttle’s targeting systems. The ship vibrated softly as the boarding clamps extended, their metallic arms locking onto the Malice Ascendant with a resounding clang. A narrow boarding tube extended, connecting the two vessels.
Sajar rose from his seat, his movements fluid despite knowing that he may not survive the impending fight. As he reached for his lightsaber, he hesitated, his hand hovering over the hilt. Memories flooded back—faces, battles, screams. He closed his eyes and steadied his breathing, letting the Force guide him.
“Balance,” he murmured. “Always balance. Let the force decide”
The boarding tube hissed as it pressurized, creating a temporary bridge between the two ships. Sajar stepped forward, his boots making soft, deliberate sounds against the metal floor. The air grew colder as he approached the Malice Ascendant, the oppressive energy of the Sith ship seeping into the atmosphere.
The corridor on the other side was shining with their lights, its walls lined with harsh red lights that pulsed rhythmically, like the heartbeat of a predator. Sajar moved cautiously, his senses stretched to their limits. He could feel the presences of the Sith Lords, their dark side emanating from the command chamber deep within the ship. But they were not alone.
Ahead, two Sith acolytes waited in the shadows. He felt their anger and anticipation before he saw them, their emotions flaring like torches in the Force.
“Traitor,” one of them sneered as they stepped into view, their lightsabers igniting with sharp snap-hisses. The crimson glow bathed their faces, twisted by arrogance and hate.
“You’re a long way from redemption, you fucker,” the second acolyte taunted, twirling his saber casually. “And even further from survival.”
Sajar said nothing. He unclipped his lightsaber and activated it, the violet blade springing to life with a soft hum. Its glow was calmer, more refined, yet no less deadly.
“This is your only warning,” Sajar said, his voice steady. “Walk away. There’s no need for this.”
The first acolyte laughed. “Mercy? From you? You abandoned the Sith, betrayed everything we stand for. We’ll enjoy making you pay.”
Without further warning, the acolytes attacked.
The first came at him with a wide, sweeping strike, his crimson blade aiming for Sajar’s midsection. Sajar parried effortlessly, his violet blade deflecting the attack with a flash of light. The second acolyte lunged from the side, his blade angled toward Sajar’s ribs.
Sajar spun, his movements fluid and precise, his saber intercepting the attack mid-strike. The corridor erupted in flashes of red and violet as their blades clashed, the hum and crackle of lightsabers filling the air.
“You lack discipline,” Sajar said, his voice calm even as he fought.
The first acolyte snarled, his strikes becoming more erratic. Sajar blocked each one with ease, his movements precise and deliberate. He stepped inside the acolyte’s guard, his saber slicing through the hilt of the young man’s weapon.
The second acoly’e hesitated, his confidence faltering. Sajar turned to face him, his violet blade raised. “Your anger blinds you,” Sajar said. “It makes you predictable.”
The acolyte roared In frustration and charged, his blade spinning in an attempt to overwhelm Sajar. But Sajar was ready. He sidestepped the attack, using the Force to pull the acolyte off balance. As the young Sith stumbled, Sajar disarmed him with a swift, precise strike.
Both acolytes lay on the ground, their weapons destroyed. Sajar deactivated his saber and looked down at them. “You’ve been given a second chance,” he said. “Don’t waste it.”
He turned and walked away, his focus already shifting to the command chamber ahead.
The command chamber was vast, its dark walls gleaming with intricate carvings of ancient Sith victories. Blood-red light from the central display bathed the room in an ominous glow. The air was heavy, almost suffocating, with the overwhelming presence of the dark side. Sajar entered the room slowly, his violet blade ignited, casting its soft hue against the stark crimson around him.
Across the chamber, three Sith Lords stood in a triangle formation, their crimson blades humming like a predatory growl. The leader, a towering figure clad in black armor adorned with glowing red runes, took a step forward. His helmet masked his face, but the sheer weight of his presence reverberated through the Force.
“So,” the leader began, his voice deep and distorted through the helmet. “The traitor dares to step into the maw of death. Tell me, Sajar, do you truly believe you can stand against us? Together, we embody power you could only dream of.”
Sajar tightened his grip on his lightsaber but remained calm. His voice was steady, measured. “The power you wield is a shadow, a pale imitation of the Force. You’ve mistaken domination for strength. That will be your downfall.”
The two Sith flanking their leader chuckled darkly. One was a lithe Twi’lek woman, her crimson eyes gleaming with malice. Her lightsaber spun idly in her hands, a double-bladed weapon humming with energy. The other, a hulking Zabrak male with tattoos covering his bald head, sneered, gripping a massive crossguard lightsaber with both hands.
The leader raised his blade, the room trembling as he infused the air with dark side energy. “You’ll regret those words, traitor. Let’s see if your ‘light’ can withstand the storm.”
And then they struck.
The Zabrak lunged first, his crossguard saber swinging in a brutal, overhead arc meant to cleave Sajar in two. Sajar sidestepped, his violet blade rising to intercept the blow. The impact sent a sharp crack echoing through the chamber, sparks flying as the two sabers locked.
Before Sajar could counter, the Twi’lek spun into the fray, her double-bladed saberstaff whirling like a deadly fan. Her strikes came fast and relentless, her weapon spinning in fluid, sweeping arcs that sought to overwhelm his defenses. Sajar’s blade danced in response, deflecting her attacks with precision, his movements economical and deliberate.
The leader didn’t wait. He extended his free hand, sending a powerful surge of Force lightning toward Sajar. The violet tendrils crackled through the air, but Sajar raised his hand, summoning the light side of the Force to absorb and dissipate the attack. The energy coursed through him, his body momentarily glowing with power.
Sajar countered with a burst of Force energy, creating a shockwave that sent the Twi’lek stumbling back. He pressed forward, his blade sweeping in a precise arc aimed at her midsection. She parried, their blades clashing in a shower of sparks, but the impact left her off balance.
The Zabrak roared and charged again, his strikes brutish and heavy, each swing of his crossguard saber designed to break through Sajar’s guard. Sajar pivoted, using the Force to enhance his speed, his movements a blur as he dodged and parried.
“You still fight like a beast,” Sajar said, his tone calm but cutting. “No idea. No focus.”
The Zabrak snarled, his attacks growing wilder. Sajar seized the moment, sidestepping a particularly reckless swing and slashing upward. His violet blade grazed the Zabrak’s arm, the smell of scorched flesh filling the air.
The Twi’lek returned, her movements more calculated now. She leapt high, spinning mid-air as her saber descended in a deadly arc. Sajar raised his blade, the impact reverberating through his arms, but he held firm. With a twist of his wrist, he redirected her momentum, sending her crashing to the ground.
The leader watched, his posture calm but his aura seething with fury. “You’re better than I expected,” he admitted, his voice echoing through the chamber. “But you’re still outmatched.”
He raised both hands, the Force swirling around him like a storm. The walls groaned under the pressure as loose debris lifted into the air, circling him. With a sharp gesture, he hurled the debris at Sajar in a deadly barrage.
Sajar planted his feet, extending both hands. The light and dark sides of the Force converged within him, and he thrust them outward, creating a shimmering barrier. The debris shattered against it, the fragments scattering harmlessly to the floor.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Sajar said.
The leader’s response was a furious roar as he leapt into the fray, his crimson blade clashing against Sajar’s with bone-jarring force. The leader’s strikes were calculated, each one aimed to exploit any potential weakness. But Sajar held firm, his blade moving in elegant, sweeping arcs that deflected every blow.
Zabrak and Twi’lek joined the assault, forcing Sajar to divide his attention. The chamber became a blur of movement and light, the hum and crackle of lightsabers filling the air.
The Twi’lek attempted to flank him, her blade spinning toward his back, but Sajar felt her through the Force. He spun, his saber intercepting hers in a brilliant clash of light. At the same time, he kicked the Zabrak square in the chest, sending him stumbling back.
The leader pressed his advantage, his strikes becoming faster, more aggressive. Sajar parried each one, his movements a blend of offense and defense. He feinted left, drawing the leader off balance, then struck low, his blade grazing the Sith’s leg.
The leader growled In pain but didn’t relent. He raised his free hand, summoning a surge of Force energy that knocked Sajar back.
Sajar rolled with the impact, rising to his feet just as the Twi’lek and Zabrak charged again. He extended both hands, unleashing a wave of Force energy that sent them hurtling across the chamber.
The leader paused, breathing heavily. “You’ve grown stronger,” he admitted. “But you’re still only one man.”
Sajar raised his saber, his voice calm. “And you’ve let your arrogance blind you. That will be your undoing.”
The leader roared, his anger fueling his power. The chamber trembled as the ship’s systems began to fail, alarms blaring. The viewport cracked, revealing the swirling vortex of hyperspace beyond.
Sajar felt the ship’s imminent destruction through the Force. He knew his time was running out. With a burst of speed, he closed the distance to the leader, their blades clashing in a final, ferocious exchange.
Drawing on both the light and dark sides of the Force, Sajar unleashed a devastating strike, his blade cutting through the leader’s defenses. The Sith staggered, his weapon falling from his grasp.
The Zabrak and Twi’lek tried to intervene, but it was too late. The ship’s hyperspace drive overloaded, and the explosion tore through the chamber, consuming everything in its path.
Sajar was hurled into the hyperspace vortex, his body spinning uncontrollably. Pain coursed through him, but he held onto the Force, letting it guide him. As darkness closed in, his final thought was simple:
“This isn’t the end.”
Scene break.
The Maester’s room in Dragonstone was quiet save for the rhythmic crackle of a fire burning low in the hearth. Shadows danced across the walls, illuminated by the light of flickering candles. The room smelled of poultices, herbs, and the faint saltiness of the sea carried in by the winds that forever roamed the island. Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen stood near the door, her expression unreadable as she gazed at the unconscious man lying on the cot.
Rhaenyra, who had come to Dragonstone seeking solace from the political quagmire of King’s Landing, was finding no such peace. Her escape to the ancestral seat of House Targaryen had been meant to shield her and her family from the relentless whispers of the court and the ever-watchful eyes of her stepmother, Queen Alicent. Instead, this man, this stranger, had been thrust into thier life—a complication she hadn’t foreseen.
The man lying on the cot was striking even in his battered state. His face was smooth and unblemished, save for the roughness that came with a life hard-lived, though it bore none of the marks of a common laborer. His strong jawline and high cheekbones were framed by dark, damp hair that clung to his face. His long lashes rested against his cheek, giving him an almost peaceful appearance. He could not have been more than thirty years of age.
Despite the cuts on his brow and the bruising on his arms, he was undeniably handsome—a beauty that spoke of someone from a noble or distinguished bloodline. His white robes clung to him, drenched in seawater when he’d been brought in, and though now cleaned and dried, they still seemed out of place in Dragonstone’s rugged and ancient halls.
“Washed ashore with no ship in sight,” Rhaenyra murmured to herself.
Her husband, Ser Laenor Velaryon, stood at her side. He was a man of considerable pride, a true Velaryon with hair of pale silver-gold and eyes of deep marine blue. He had been quiet since hearing of the stranger’s arrival, though his posture betrayed his unease. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, as if prepared to defend his family should the man prove to be a threat.
“What kind of man wears robes like these?” Laenor asked, his voice low but edged with skepticism. He gestured toward the stranger’s attire, which was simple in design but undeniably fine in its craftsmanship. The fabric shimmered faintly in the firelight, its weave unfamiliar even to Laenor, who had spent much of his life at sea and encountered traders from distant lands.
“A man who has traveled far,” Rhaenyra replied, her violet eyes narrowing as she stepped closer to the cot. Her voice carried the faintest edge of intrigue. “Or a man who does not belong.”
The Maester Gerardys, an older man with a stern but tired face, hovered nearby, watching the interaction with a neutral expression. He had been tending to the stranger for two days, doing his best to stabilize him after the fisherman had brought him to the castle.
“Your Grace,” the Maester interjected, bowing his head respectfully. “His wounds were grave but not life-threatening. He should have awakened by now. There is no infection, no fever, yet his body remains unresponsive.”
Rhaenyra turned to the Maester, her brow furrowed. “You mean to say you’ve done all you can, and still, he does not wake?”
The Maester nodded solemnly. “I have seen many men near death, Your Grace, but this one… it is as though his mind is elsewhere. His body is here, but his mind is not responding.”
Laenor scoffed, crossing his arms. “The mind is not so easily understood, Maester. He could be a sailor who hit his head or a criminal who ran from the law and found himself adrift.”
“And yet,” Rhaenyra countered, her tone soft but resolute, “what sailor or criminal dresses as he does? Or carries himself with such… presence, even in unconsciousness?”
Her words hung In the air. She couldn’t deny that there was something different about the man. She felt it in the way the room seemed heavier when she was near him, as though he carried a weight invisible to the eye. She’d felt it the moment she saw him—lying broken on the shore like a relic from another age.
Laenor shifted uneasily. “What do you propose we do with him, then? We cannot simply wait forever for him to wake.”
“We will give him time,” Rhaenyra said firmly. She glanced over at the cot again, her eyes lingering on the man’s face. “If he was meant to die, he would not have survived the sea. Whatever brought him to our shores, there is a purpose in it.”
From across the room, a soft cry broke the tension. Rhaenyra turned toward the source of the sound, her expression softening. The Maester’s assistant had entered with a small bundle—her youngest son, Joffrey Velaryon. Barely a fortnight old, he had been brought In to feed.
Rhaenyra crossed the room swiftly, reaching out to take her son into her arms. Joffrey’s tiny face scrunched as he fussed, but he quieted as soon as he felt the warmth of his mother’s embrace. She held him close, her lips brushing his soft forehead.
Laenor’s posture relaxed slightly as he watched his wife with their child. “At least one mystery in this room has an answer,” he said with a faint smile.
But Rhaenyra’s thoughts were elsewhere. As she cradled her son, she couldn’t help but glance back at the man on the cot. Who was he? Why had he come to Dragonstone? And what would his arrival mean for her family?
She turned to the Maester one last time. “Do whatever you must to bring him back. I want answers.”
The Maester inclined his head. “As you wish, Princess.”
Rhaenyra left the room with her child in her arms and Laenor at her side. The stranger remained still, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, his face calm but unknowable.
Unbeknownst to all, behind his closed eyelids, Sajar’s mind was slowly stirring, memories flashing like shards of broken glass. Faces, battles, and distant worlds swirled in his unconscious thoughts, his body trapped in slumber even as his spirit fought to awaken.
Whatever answers lay within him, they would come—but not without consequence.