Secrets in the Shadows
A month had passed since that first fateful night with Silverwing, and Annatar's life had transformed in ways he could scarcely have imagined. By day, he trained under Daeron's watchful eye, swinging swords and sharpening his skills with all the discipline expected of a young man with potential. But at night, when the world was cloaked in darkness, he found himself drawn back to the secluded shores of Dragonstone, where Silverwing awaited him.
Annatar had grown careful over the past weeks, moving through the corridors of Dragonstone with silent, deliberate steps. Even the flickering torchlight made him wary, and he had begun memorizing the guard rotations to slip out unnoticed. Every few nights, he would return to Silverwing, feeling the bond between them deepen with every visit. He would run his hands along her silvery scales, marveling at the smoothness and warmth of her skin, feeling a connection that surpassed words. And on the rare nights when he dared to climb onto her back, they would soar together through the midnight skies, each flight a small rebellion, an act of secret freedom.
The freedom he felt with Silverwing filled him with an exhilarating sense of purpose, but he couldn't ignore the creeping sense of dread that was beginning to settle within him. Whispers had started circulating around Dragonstone—idle chatter among the servants, subtle remarks from the guards, even a few raised brows from Daeron himself. The island was alive with gossip, and even the smallest rumor seemed to echo off the stone walls. Annatar began to sense eyes watching him, prying for any sign of what he might be hiding.
One evening, as he returned from training, Annatar overheard two guards speaking near the entrance to the armory.
"Did you hear? They say a dragon has been stirring near the cliffs," one guard muttered, his voice low.
"Silverwing, they say," the other replied, glancing over his shoulder as if the dragon herself might be listening. "She hasn't flown with anyone since the queen passed. Not without a proper rider."
Annatar's heart pounded. He held his breath, frozen just outside the doorway, straining to catch every word.
The first guard shrugged. "Maybe she's restless. They're saying it's the blood of Old Valyria stirring again. Some say she's chosen another rider."
"A dragon choosing someone other than a Targaryen?" the other guard scoffed, yet his tone was uneasy. "They'd have the poor soul's head on a spike before the next sunrise."
The words struck Annatar with cold clarity. If they discovered he had bonded with Silverwing, he would be labeled a traitor, or worse—an imposter trying to claim the power of dragons for himself. He imagined the consequences: the Targaryens would see his bond as a threat, a challenge to their rule. There would be no mercy.
That night, Annatar's fear weighed heavily on him as he snuck out once more to meet Silverwing. She was waiting, her massive form shrouded in shadows, yet her eyes gleamed with that familiar warmth when she saw him. As he approached, she lowered her head, letting out a soft purr as he scratched her in greeting.
"I… I have to be careful, Silverwing," he whispered, resting his forehead against her scaled neck. "They're starting to notice. If they find out, they'll…" He trailed off, the words bitter on his tongue. He didn't want to imagine the punishment, but he knew he couldn't risk discovery.
As if sensing his worry, Silverwing nudged him gently, her warm breath a balm to his fraying nerves. She seemed to understand his fear, her purring softening as he spoke. It was as though she, too, knew the dangers they faced, and her steady gaze gave him strength. Yet Annatar realized he needed to be smarter, more cautious if he was to keep this bond a secret.
So he began to limit his visits. Where he had once slipped away every night, he now went only three times a week. And where he had once reveled in flights beneath the stars, he now limited himself to rare moments, going on flights only once every two weeks. It pained him to stay away, to ground himself when he could be soaring over Dragonstone's cliffs, but the risks were too great.
The change was difficult, and Annatar felt the weight of it keenly. He missed the thrill of the wind whipping against his face, the breathtaking views from above, the feeling of complete freedom. The nights he spent with Silverwing were his only true moments of peace, but even then, he couldn't shake the paranoia that gnawed at him, the ever-present fear that someone would see him or hear her mighty wings overhead.
One cold evening, Annatar made his way down to the cliffs, wrapping his cloak tightly around himself as he slipped out of the keep. The path down to the cove was slick with sea spray, and he moved cautiously, his heart pounding with each step. As he reached the beach, Silverwing was already there, her form silhouetted against the dark ocean. She let out a low, welcoming rumble, but even she seemed to sense his nervousness.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?" he murmured, reaching out to scratch her familiar spot under her jaw. Silverwing leaned into his touch, her deep purr vibrating through her chest. He felt the tension ease slightly, grounding him in the moment.
As he scratched her, he found himself speaking in a low, hushed tone, as though he were sharing secrets with an old friend. "I want to keep coming to see you, Silverwing, but they're watching me. The Targaryens… they would never allow it. You're theirs, after all, or so they think. But… but you chose me." He said the last words with a hint of pride, feeling the warmth of her scales beneath his hand.
Silverwing seemed to listen intently, her violet eyes gleaming with a soft, knowing light. Her presence was a comfort, yet Annatar couldn't shake the feeling that their time together was fragile, that any night might be their last.
Weeks passed like this, the hidden routine becoming part of Annatar's life. He would go to her in the dead of night, his visits fewer and farther between, each one marked by the ever-present anxiety of discovery. He found himself scanning the halls for new guards, paying attention to any whispers or side glances. Every slip out of the keep was a gamble, a test of his will against the fear that gnawed at him.
But for all his caution, Annatar couldn't resist. The bond with Silverwing had become a part of him, an essential truth that he could no longer deny. Every time he climbed onto her back, he felt the same sense of freedom, of belonging. The fear, the danger, the secrecy—none of it mattered when he was with her.
One night, as they flew high above Dragonstone, the stars glittering like jewels in the dark sky, Annatar felt a fierce, unshakable resolve settle within him. He would do whatever it took to keep this bond safe. Even if it meant hiding in the shadows, sneaking out only when the castle slept, he would protect what he had with Silverwing. This bond was his, as real and vital as the blood that flowed in his veins. And nothing—not fear, not even the wrath of House Targaryen—could take that away from him.
As dawn broke on the horizon, casting soft rays of light over the waves, Annatar guided Silverwing back to the cove, where he dismounted with quiet reverence. He stroked her neck one last time, a silent promise passing between them. Then, with one last lingering glance, he slipped away, retreating back into the shadows, carrying their secret with him like a flame guarded against the dark.