The Gathering Storm

The year was 101 AC, a year that would mark a turning point in the history of Westeros. Across the realm, noble houses stirred, lords and ladies traveled in grand processions, all bound for Harrenhal, where the Great Council would convene. In the largest hall the realm had ever known, the most powerful of the land would decide the future of the Targaryen dynasty. Rulers, dragons, banners, and ancient grudges all came together beneath the shadow of the Black Harren's fortress, a castle whose history was marred by fire and blood—an omen, perhaps, for what was to come.

Yet on Dragonstone, far from the council halls, another fate was being woven, in a quiet room lit only by a dying fire. In a corner of the castle reserved for those of little renown, a midwife swaddled a newborn child with hair like spun silver and eyes the color of amethysts. His cries echoed softly, piercing the cool night air. His mother, a nameless, unwed woman of humble origins, stared in awe and fear at the child in her arms.

This was her son, yet even she could see he was born with something otherworldly. The firelight flickered over his small face, highlighting delicate features and an unsettling beauty that even the lords and ladies of Westeros would have envied. The babe, Annatar, was an enigma—a child without a father, without a name of any standing, yet marked by unmistakable Valyrian blood.

There were whispers among the servants, wondering aloud who might have sired such a striking child. Rumors grew in the shadows of Dragonstone's halls, carried by midwives and stable boys who spun wild tales of forbidden love or secret trysts with men of Targaryen blood. They dared not speak such rumors openly, for bastardy, even among dragonseeds, was a dangerous label to carry in a family whose bloodline was jealously guarded. Yet the color of his hair, his startling eyes—these were marks that could not easily be hidden or dismissed.

The infant had barely opened his eyes to the world, and already he was a creature of mystery, a boy destined to live in the margins of history, neither lord nor commoner. For Annatar, being born into the world would mean growing up as an outsider, close enough to the throne to taste its power, yet barred from it by blood and by birthright. His mother knew this too, and as she looked into his eyes, she saw something deeper—a spirit both fierce and ancient, as if he were touched by a dragon's fire even in infancy.

Outside, the winds swept in from the Narrow Sea, carrying with them the distant cries of dragons circling Dragonstone's towers. The great beasts flew overhead, their shadows cast long over the cliffs and coiling waves. Annatar's mother murmured softly to him, whispering words of comfort and promise that no one else would hear. She would raise him with every ounce of strength she had, she swore, to weather the storms that would come and protect him from a world that might seek to bend or break him.

Meanwhile, in Harrenhal, alliances were forged, and ambitions stirred. House Velaryon's banners snapped in the wind beside those of House Baratheon, Lannister, and Stark, each lord casting appraising glances, each lady watching with veiled interest as claims were whispered and debated. The Great Council's decision would decide the heir of King Jaehaerys I, a decision made not only for the throne but for the future of House Targaryen itself.

But even in that grand hall, few knew how momentous the gathering would be, how choices made that year would echo throughout the Seven Kingdoms, tearing apart families, friendships, and loyalties. No one could have known that the seeds of civil war were being sown at that very moment, nor that a child born in a dimly lit chamber on Dragonstone, a boy without a name or future, would someday be swept up in the storm of dragons and fire.

For the boy named Annatar, the storm had only just begun.