The Duel and the Secrets of Dragonstone
It had been one month since the shocking deaths of Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon Targaryen, and the realm had not yet recovered from the brutal grief that followed. In the aftermath of the tragedies, Princess Rhaenyra, now the sole heir to the Iron Throne, was forced into the weighty position of leading the Targaryen house. Her claim to the throne was strong, but it was also uncertain. The political landscape of Westeros was shifting, and there were whispers, sharp as swords, of rebellion.
But for Annatar, the turmoil in the capital felt distant. The winds of Dragonstone had brought with them an unwelcome visitor—the rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen. Annatar had heard stories of Daemon before, tales filled with fire and blood, and he had long admired the prince's fierce independence. But now, on Dragonstone, with the air heavy with the recent news of tragedy, Annatar could feel the tension in the air as well as the tension building in his chest.
When Daemon arrived on the island, his presence unsettled more than just the courtiers. Even Silverwing seemed to sense the change, as Annatar had been leaving her alone more frequently in the past month. He no longer visited her as often as before, the bond they shared too precious to risk. He told himself that he had to be more careful, especially now. Daemon's arrival had unsettled him, bringing with it the fear of being discovered. The prince was not just here for the politics of his family; Annatar knew that Daemon would notice things, ask questions, and ultimately uncover the secrets he had tried so hard to bury.
On the first night Daemon arrived, Annatar had made his way down to the shore, telling Silverwing that they couldn't meet as often as before. He could feel the dragon's gaze on him, but the words he spoke to her felt like a lie. There were too many unknowns swirling around him. The tournament, the Targaryen heir, his unknown parentage—it was all too much to bear.
As the days passed, the tension between Annatar and the prince grew. Daemon, ever the calculating, fiery individual, began to take a special interest in the young man, sensing something about him that even Annatar hadn't fully understood. He was intrigued by Annatar's skills, by the strength that radiated from him. Daemon was a man of action, someone who would never let a challenge go unanswered. And so, one day, he approached Annatar with an offer.
"Would you care for a practice duel?" Daemon asked, his voice casual, but there was an underlying edge to his words, a challenge that made Annatar's stomach twist.
Annatar hesitated, glancing down at his feet, his mind racing. "How could I—a peasant—possibly fight a prince?" he replied, his tone cool but tinged with the bitterness of the word. A peasant, he told himself. That's all he would ever be—nothing more than a bastard, a bloodline with no claim to greatness.
Daemon's eyes narrowed. "A peasant?" he repeated, stepping closer, his shadow looming over Annatar. "Is that how you see yourself? You might be a peasant in title, but in spirit, I see something more."
Annatar swallowed, his heart pounding. He had never been one for pride, but the words stung all the same. He turned to leave, knowing better than to engage with a prince in such a volatile mood.
But as he walked away, he heard Daemon's voice, low and mocking. "Perhaps that's why your mother kept you a secret. What a disappointment you must be."
The words struck like a dagger to his chest. Annatar froze. His mother—his past—his unknown father. Daemon's words were a reminder of all the pain Annatar had buried deep within. He couldn't let it slide. His blood boiled, and something primal surged within him, a fierceness he hadn't known he had.
Without turning to face Daemon, Annatar spoke in a clipped voice. "You don't know anything about me, Targaryen."
Daemon chuckled darkly. "Then show me, boy. Show me what you're made of."
Annatar turned, eyes blazing with fury. "Fine. You want to see what I'm made of?" He reached for his sword, his heart racing with the tension of the challenge. "I'll show you."
The two of them squared off, the air thick with tension as they took their positions. Annatar's stance was strong, his grip firm on the hilt of his sword. Daemon, too, was a formidable opponent, his sword gleaming under the fading light of the day.
The fight began with a flurry of strikes. Daemon's movements were graceful but quick, and he seemed to anticipate Annatar's every move. Annatar's attacks were forceful, but there was a rawness to them, a lack of finesse that made him predictable. Daemon, with his practiced skill and sharp instincts, easily parried Annatar's blows, knocking him off balance with each strike.
Within moments, Daemon had Annatar on the ground, his sword poised above him. The young man was breathless, bruised, and utterly defeated. Annatar could feel the sting of the blow to his pride, but beneath it, something else burned—a recognition of Daemon's power, his mastery.
"You're strong, boy," Daemon said, his voice soft but with a hint of admiration. "But you lack control. If you want to truly be something, you'll need to learn discipline. You're not a child anymore."
Annatar didn't respond, his chest heaving as he lay there, still stunned by the defeat. Daemon was right—he had let his emotions control the fight. He needed to be more than just the raw power he had grown used to.
The next morning, Annatar awoke to a sharp headache and a bruised ego. He was greeted by a summons to the Dragonstone throne room, where Daemon awaited him, a faint smirk on his lips.
"Get up, boy," Daemon said, his tone businesslike. "We've got work to do."
Annatar stood, rubbing his temples, the weight of the previous night's fight still heavy on him. As he entered the throne room, he could see Daemon perched on the throne, looking down at him with an inscrutable expression.
"You showed potential," Daemon said, his voice firm. "But potential isn't enough. If you want to be something more, you'll need guidance. And I'll be the one to give it."
Annatar blinked in confusion, still processing the defeat from the night before. "What are you talking about?" he asked.
Daemon's eyes glinted with a knowing look. "I'm making you my squire."
Annatar's breath caught in his throat. "Your squire? But… I'm not of noble blood."
Daemon laughed, a cold, dark sound. "Blood means little, boy. It's your actions that define you. And I see in you the makings of someone who can become something great. Do you understand?"
Annatar's mind raced, his heart thumping in his chest. This was it—the chance he had been waiting for. Daemon saw something in him. And while he didn't know what that something was, he knew he couldn't turn back now. But there was also the underlying question that hung between them, one that Annatar couldn't bring himself to ask just yet: what did Daemon know about his father?
But Daemon didn't offer the answers. Instead, he leaned in, lowering his voice. "You may be a bastard, but that doesn't mean you don't have a future. You're mine now."
And with that, Annatar's world shifted again. He had become part of Daemon's world—part of the Targaryen intrigue, part of the game of power that would one day shape the future of Westeros. And somewhere, buried deep within him, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of a much larger story.
He had no idea who his father was—or even if Daemon would ever tell him. But in that moment, as Daemon's squire, Annatar was one step closer to the truth, one step closer to unraveling the mystery of his bloodline. And perhaps, just perhaps, one step closer to the freedom he had always yearned for.