281 AC - On Dragonstone:
Amidst the tempest's fury that shattered the Targaryen fleet, Queen Rhaella struggled in childbirth. With each agonizing contraction, she summoned her dwindling strength, finally delivering a baby girl she dubbed Daenerys 'Stormborn'.
Weak and weary, Rhaella called for her remaining son, Viserys. Holding his year-old nephew, Anakin, in his arms, Viserys approached his mother's bedside. Rhaella gently cupped his face, her gaze clouded with fear and anguish.
"My son," she whispered, "This war has taken so much from us. I fear this is the end for me."
Viserys struggled to comprehend his mother's words as she confided in him. Rhaella always tried to hide the worst of The Mad King Aerys's behavior from their children, not wanting to frighten them. Aerys may not have been as unstable earlier in his life when Rhaegar was born, but by the time Viserys was a young boy it took Rhaella's active intervention to keep him from seeing his father at his worst. Rhaegar, meanwhile, grew into an adult and gradually realized that his father was going insane, but hoped to quietly wait out the rest of his reign without major incident.
However, after Prince Rhaegar's death, Aerys had spiraled into a frenzy, demanding that Anakin, Rhaegar's firstborn son and heir, be taken from his mother, Elia Martell. Separating them had been a torment for Rhaella, and the pleas of her three-year-old granddaughter, Rhaenys, only added to her heartache. The Mad King's orders were final however, and she assured the Dornish woman and her granddaughter that she would ensure the safety of her grandson.
As her last breath neared, Queen Rhaella's once-resolute gaze softened, fixed now on her son. Her slender hand, already cold with the touch of death, reached out to him. "Viserys," she whispered, her voice a fragile echo in the dimly lit chamber of Dragonstone's castle, "You must protect them. Promise me… you'll protect… your… sister."
Viserys, barely more than a boy himself, nodded solemnly, his heart heavy with grief and the sudden weight of guardianship thrust upon him. He watched as the flicker of life in his mother's eyes faded, leaving behind memories and her crown - a symbol of her reign and now his burden to bear.
Hours later, outside the chamber, under the flickering torch-light of the castle's corridors, Viserys cradled the crown in his hands, its jewels catching the light as tears welled in his eyes.
He listened intently, his senses sharp despite his grief, and heard the distant sounds of struggle - metal clashing, men shouting, the unmistakable sounds of battle. Fear gripped his heart anew as he realized the sounds were coming from his sister and nephew's room, where his mother's handmaidens had hidden them away, but the castle was no longer safe.
Moments later, Ser Willem Darry emerged, his armor splattered with blood, holding the two infants protectively in his arms.
"Prince Viserys," Ser Willem's voice was urgent, his tone betraying the gravity of the situation, "We must leave. The Baratheon fleet has come. Some among us have turned against your house."
Viserys felt a surge of panic, unable to force himself to focus. With resolve hardening his features, he clutched his mother's crown tightly. It was all he had left of her - a link to the past and a symbol of his heritage.
They moved swiftly and silently through the castle, avoiding the gaze of those who had once sworn to protect them but now sought to betray them. Ser Willem guided them towards the docks where a ship awaited, bound for the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea.
As they finally boarded the ship, the salt-laden breeze of the sea carried a whisper of hope. Ser Willem introduced himself formally to Viserys, his voice steady despite the turmoil around them. "I am Ser Willem Darry, sworn knight to House Targaryen. Your mother entrusted your safety to me, Prince Viserys. I will not fail her."
Willem, standing at 6 foot 4, is a tall, imposing figure with a strong presence. He has a rugged and somewhat weathered look, characterized by his prominent facial features. He sports a full head of thick, dark hair that has become salt-and-pepper over the years. His eyes are a distinctive blue, which add intensity to his gaze. (Liam Neeson)
Viserys looked at the knight, seeing in him the embodiment of loyalty and protection. In that moment, he knew he had no choice but to trust this man with his life and the lives of his young kin. Gripping his mother's crown one last time, Viserys nodded, his expression a mixture of grief, determination, and a flicker of hope for the uncertain future that lay ahead.
287 AC - In Braavos:
Most cities are built on stone. Braavos was built on ships. Or, more specifically, their cargo. Slaves who rose up against their Valyrian captors and seized the helms of the convoy. Of all crimes, Valyria punished rebellion most severely. The slaves faced not execution, but the Valyrian mines or labor camps in the most remote and savage colonies if recaptured. And few corners of the world can long remain hidden from dragonback.
However, histories claim that a group of slave women prophesied the slaves would find shelter in a distant lagoon, behind a wall of pine-clad hills and sea stones, where the frequent fogs would help hide the refugees from the eyes of dragon riders passing overhead.
And so it proved. Because they had risked their lives in the name of freedom, the mothers and fathers of the new city vowed that no man, woman, or child in Braavos should ever be a slave. This is the first law of Braavos, engraved in stone on the arch that spans the Long Canal.
For over a hundred years, Braavos hid itself from the eyes of the world, who called it the Secret City. Using a dye derived from a local snail, our captains stained their sails purple to hide their stolen Valyrian ships. Merchants carried false charts and lied when questioned about their home port. Eventually, one Sealord, an elected ruler, decided enough time had passed, and initiated the 'unmasking' of Braavos to the world and to Valyria.
Of course, it helped that the Iron Bank made handsome restitution to the dragonlords for the stolen ships, whilst, of course, refusing to pay for the value of the slaves themselves.
The anniversary of the unmasking is celebrated every year in Braavos with ten days of feasting and masked revelry, a festival like none other in the known world, culminating at midnight on the tenth day, when the Titan roars, and tens of thousands of celebrants remove their masks as one.
Freed of the constraints of secrecy, Braavos quickly grew into the wealthiest and most powerful of the Free Cities, and, one could argue, the most beautiful. From the sprawling Sealord's Palace with its menagerie of strange beasts and birds to the imposing Palace of Justice and the aqueduct we call the Sweetwater River that bears fresh water from the mainland, Braavos is without rival, in either engineering or elegance.
The temples of Braavos are also famed throughout the world and wondrous to behold. Descended from a hundred different peoples, the Braavosi honor a hundred different gods. The Temple of the Moonsingers is the foremost of these, being the faith of the slave women whose prophecies lead our ancestors here. The Lord of Light has a great temple, as well, for his worshipers have grown more numerous in the past hundred years. Yet, less numerous and even some forgotten faiths still have temples deep in the heart of the city on the Isle of the Gods.
But the beauty of Braavos is not only in her buildings. Braavosi swordsmanship is renowned throughout the world. The Braavosi eschew the armor and longswords of the Westerosi knights, preferring speed, agility, and slender blades. The greatest bravos call themselves water dancers after the custom of dueling upon the Moon Pool near the Sealord's Palace.
By tradition, the greatest of all the bravos is the First Sword, who commands the personal guard of the Sealord and protects his person at all public events. Once chosen, a First Sword serves for life. Inevitably, there are always those who wish to cut that life short to effect some change in policy. Though not even the First Swords are the true guardians of Braavos.
That honor goes to the Titan, who protects the entrance to the harbor. With his proud head and fiery eyes looming close to four hundred feet above the sea, the Titan is a fortress of a kind never seen before or since. His eyes are huge beacon fires lighting the way for returning ships into the lagoon. Within his bronze body are halls and chambers, murder holes, and arrow slits. Enemy ships can be steered onto the rocks by the watchmen inside the Titan. And stones and pots of burning pitch can be dropped onto the decks of any that attempt to pass between the Titan's legs without leave. This has seldom been necessary, however. Not since the Century of Blood, has any enemy been so rash as to attempt to provoke the Titan's wrath. Should an enemy break through into the lagoon, however, he would face the walls of Braavos. Again, not of stone, like other cities, but of ships.
The Arsenal of Braavos can build one of our famous purple-hulled war galleys in a single day. All the vessels are constructed following the same design so that all the many parts can be prepared in advance, and skilled shipbuilders work upon different sections of the vessels simultaneously to hasten the labor. To organize such a feat of engineering is unprecedented. One need only to look at the raucous, confused construction in the shipyards around the world to see the truth of this.
If even the Arsenal, great as it is, failed Braavos, an enemy who could defeat both the Titan and their fleet would be strong indeed. But Braavos does not depend only on statues and ships. They also have iron and gold.
As Anakin concluded his recitation of Braavosi history in Valyrian, Daenerys's eyes sparkled with admiration. "That was impressive, Annie," she remarked to her elder nephew.
"Okay, can we go now?" Anakin implored, eager to venture outside.
Daenerys, typically reserved, hesitated but recalled her promise. With a slight pout, she allowed Anakin to lead her through their humble abode's red entrance door and beneath the verdant lemon tree. Anakin swiftly retrieved a ball as they stepped into the sunlight.
They gleefully tossed the ball back and forth until their playful cat, Link, snatched it out of thin air and dashed away. Weary from the sun's embrace, Daenerys urged Link to run off with the ball while Anakin energetically pursued it.
Unbeknownst to the young boy, his pursuit led them perilously close to a cliff overlooking the vast Narrow Sea. Anakin stood transfixed, marveling at the boundless expanse before him. The cat gracefully deposited the ball at his feet, a symbol of their unintended adventure.
In the six years since the death of Queen Rhaella Ser Willem Darry, a loyal knight of House Darry during Robert's Rebellion, secretly transported the surviving Targaryen children to Essos, settling in the city of Braavos.
Anakin eagerly absorbed tales narrated by his uncle, Viserys. From these stories, he and Daenerys gained a vivid tapestry of the Seven Kingdoms, their lineage, and the legendary dragons. Viserys, driven by his ambition to reclaim his father's throne, had pledged countless times to return them to Westeros. Their uncle instilled in them knowledge of siege towers and the Faith of the Seven.
Anakin's imagination soared as he contemplated this distant land. However, upon returning home after indulging in play, he discovered Daenerys had retreated to her room. Alone under the lemon tree, he stroked the cat that had nestled beside him.
As he watched Ser Willem and Viserys approach, he couldn't help but envy his uncle's frequent trips with the old knight. Instead, Anakin spent his days with Daenerys and the maids hired by Ser Willem, who, although well-intentioned, seemed distant and emotionless, autonomous in a sense.
"Where did you go? What'd you get?" Anakin began to inquire, but Viserys abruptly silenced him. He noticed a gesture toward the old knight, whose frail appearance suggested he was not inclined to conversation.
Over dinner that evening, an unusual silence prevailed, breaking the Targaryen siblings' customary habit of exchanging barbs and insults.
That night, the knight sent him and his aunt to bed prematurely, much to Anakin's annoyance. His protestations lingered until twilight's embrace. However, an irresistible sensation washed over him, eclipsing his previous experiences - an insatiable curiosity and a burning desire to satiate it.
"Where are you going?" inquired Daenerys, leaping from her bed to witness his stealthy descent out the window. A hushed gesture silenced her as he vanished into the night. "I'm telling Ser Willem," she shouted from the window's ledge as he navigated the same path he had taken while following the cat earlier that day.
But this time, the familiar path seemed transformed. Vendors and merchants lined the streets, blacksmiths' forges roared with industry, and the vibrant night city captivated his senses. Drawn by the allure of the unfamiliar, he wandered astray until he stumbled upon a bridge spanning a solitary island. Upon this island stood a single, enigmatic building.
As Anakin gazed upon the island from afar, the ocean's relentless waves crashing against its shores, an inexplicable force tugged at him, beckoning him towards the distant structure. Undeterred by the island's eerie isolation, he crossed the bridge and approached the solitary entrance.
Upon the desolate rocky knoll, the House of Black and White emerges, a stark silhouette against the dim sky. Its windowless facade is adorned with a black tile roof, beneath which two towering wooden doors stand majestically. Carved into the left door is weirwood, while the right boasts ebony. At their center, a moon face emerges from the darkness, ebony inlaid in weirwood and vice versa.
Greystone steps descend steeply to a shadowy dock, inviting passage into the temple's depths. Secret tunnels and concealed passages weave their way through the structure, offering hidden entrances besides the main doors. A winding staircase ascends to a desolate garret, while a perilous wooden ladder leads to a rooftop perch swept by ceaseless winds.
Within the temple's dim interior, rows of austere stone benches line the walls, beneath a rough-hewn stone floor. Hard stone beds lie shuttered within alcoves, their cold presence noticeable even in the dimness. At the temple's heart lies a sinister entity - a ten-foot black pool of poisoned water, illuminated by the eerie glow of scarlet candles. Around its perimeter, statues of ancient deities gaze down impassively. Thirty in total, they include figures such as Bakkalon, the Hooded Wayfarer, and the Moon-Pale Maiden.
Beneath the temple's hallowed ground, a labyrinth of rock-hewn passageways, vaults, and tunnels unfolds. Here, armaments and clothing are stored, meticulously separated by the temple's servants. On the first level below the main floor, the sleeping cells of the temple's priests and acolytes are found, while those of the servants reside on the second.
A third level, accessible only to priests, houses the holy sanctum. An iron gate leads to a descending staircase, which ultimately connects to a subterranean chamber filled with the gruesome collection of faces used by the elusive Faceless Men. A macabre side passage, lined with bones and supported by skull columns, whispers tales of unspeakable horrors, while another path descends even deeper into the darkness below.
Anakin's steady approach to the temple was accompanied by a torrent of flickering images in his mind. Though he'd never stepped foot inside, an ominous presence pulsed within its walls, its layout inexplicably etched into his consciousness. The night was eerily silent, save for the distant murmur of the sea.
Just as Anakin extended his hand to grasp the ancient door, a firm grip clamped around his wrist. "Are you completely mad?!" Ser Willem's aged voice cut through the darkness, a mixture of anger and incredulity that he had never witnessed before. The knight's breath was ragged, his eyes wide with a fear that seemed almost foreign on his weathered face.
He tried to explain, his words tumbling over each other in a desperate attempt to make sense of the strange calling that had led him there. But Ser Willem's unwavering resolve silenced him. With a stern grip, the elderly knight dragged the boy back to their abode, his face etched with a deep frown that revealed an unfamiliar side of the man Anakin had always known as a kindly patriarch.
As they burst through the red door to their home, his heart sank at the sight of Viserys and Daenerys. The latters eyes were brimming with unshed tears, her face pale and worried. Before he could utter a word, she enveloped Anakin in an agonized embrace, her whispered plea hanging in the air. "Where did you go? You were gone for hours."
Viserys sat brooding in the corner, his arms crossed and a strange mixture of worry and disappointment etched on his face. The startling realization that time had slipped away from him suddenly slammed into Anakin.
"To your chambers, both of you," the old knight commanded the Targaryen siblings, his voice leaving no room for argument. Anakin could feel the weight of the night's events pressing down on him as he watched his aunt and uncle retreat to their rooms.
He was left alone with the aging knight in the flickering candlelight of the living room. "You're smarter than this, Anakin. Why would you do this?" Willem's voice was heavy with concern.
Anakin's lips parted, but no words escaped. He could only manage a feeble, "I'm sorry."
Willem sighed deeply, the sound filled with a weariness that spoke of long years and countless burdens. "Son, I know you must feel trapped here… but you must always think before you act." Anakin's face sagged with dejection. He could feel the weight of his own folly pressing down on him. "Anakin, do you know why we were forced to flee our homeland?" Willem pressed.
Anakin recounted the tales he had heard from his uncle, the stories of Robert's Rebellion and the fall of House Targaryen. Ser Willem listened patiently, nodding at the accuracies and gently correcting the inaccuracies in Prince Viserys's account.
Believing in the boy's maturity despite his young age, Willem decided to reveal the true events that had unfolded. He spoke of the 'Mad King' and the actions of Anakin's father that had ignited the rebellion. He recounted the tragic fates of his family, including his mother and sister, details Viserys had omitted at his request. Willem's account left him contemplative and visibly affected, the weight of his family's tragic history pressing heavily on his young shoulders.
Anakin had displayed an understanding of the situation's complexity, but he was still a child who grieved the loss of his loved ones. Unbeknownst to him, Willem had concealed the existence of fates of his mother and sister to protect him, only now choosing to reveal it. The revelation struck him deeply, and he felt a fresh wave of sorrow and confusion wash over him.
Ser Willem, sensing the boy's turmoil, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "There is one last secret I must share with you," he said, his voice softening. "I am dying, Anakin."
Anakin's eyes widened, shock and sorrow mingling in his gaze. He opened his mouth to speak, but once again no words came. Instead, he simply nodded.
Willem's eyes softened with a paternal warmth as he continued, "I have done my best to protect you and your kin, but my time is running out. You must be strong, Anakin. You must be wise."
Anakin swallowed hard, his mind racing with the enormity of everything he had learned. He looked up at Ser Willem, seeing not just the knight who had cared for him, but a man who had sacrificed everything for the Targaryen legacy, the embodiment of honor and loyalty.
"I will try," Anakin whispered, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him.
Ser Willem nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. "Do, or do not, there is no try."
That night, after being sent to bed, Daenerys detected Anakin's faint sobs emanating from his bed. Despite his feeble attempts to conceal his distress, she discerned her nephew's tears, surmising that Ser Willem's words had bothered him deeply. A surge of empathy washed over her as she silently rose from her own bed and approached him.
Daenerys gently wrapped her arms around Anakin, pulling him into a comforting embrace. They remained silent, the only sound the soft rustling of fabric and the distant whisper of the sea outside. Her presence provided solace, allowing him to temporarily forget the sorrow that Willem's many revelations had brought him.
Meanwhile, in the solitude of his chambers, Ser Willem's spirits waned heavily after the evening's turmoil. He sat by the dim glow of a single candle, his thoughts burdened by the weight of the day's events. Anakin's tendency to act impulsively and his insatiable thirst for knowledge was already putting him in harm's way.
Despite being just seven name-days, Anakin exhibited an intellectual acuity that eclipsed his uncle, who was six years his senior. Ser Willem observed how swiftly the boy absorbed information and wisdom, eager to unravel every mystery that crossed his path.
The knight's heart ached with the realization that his weary body hindered his ability to guide Anakin with the sword to the same extent he had unsuccessfully tried with his uncle years ago. He watched Anakin with a mixture of pride and apprehension, knowing the boy was indeed the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, a youth of extraordinary promise, mirroring his father's multifaceted brilliance.
Yet, as he contemplated Anakin's future, Ser Willem's heart grew heavy with fear. The boy's compassion and inherent nature were still uncertain, and Willem feared he might not be present when Anakin faced his greatest challenge. The knight's breath grew shallow as he considered the coming trials and his own diminishing strength.
With a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and surrendering to the encroaching fatigue. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, mirroring the dark thoughts that plagued his mind. He prayed silently, not for himself, but for the boy who had become like a son to him.
In the other room, Anakin's sobs had quieted, replaced by the steady rhythm of Daenerys's breathing as she held him. Despite the sorrow, a faint glimmer of hope lingered in the air, born from the bond they shared and the strength they drew from one another. As the night wore on, they fell into a restless sleep, unaware of the weighty decisions and deep-seated fears that consumed their guardian.
288 AC - In Braavos:
Months passed, casting a somber shadow over the young Targaryens. Ser Willem's illness ravaged his frail body, forcing him to relinquish his duties as their guardian. As the elderly knight succumbed to his ailments, his servants fled the gloomy house, pilfering everything in their wake.
Orphaned and alone, Viserys and Anakin bore the burden of burying Ser Willem's remains, adhering to the Braavosi tradition of scattering them at sea. A silent grief consumed them as they bid farewell to their protector.
The house with the red door became a cruel memory as they were cast out, leaving Daenerys shattered. She cried for weeks. Viserys descended into begging on the streets of Braavos, his gaze eternally fixed on his sister and nephew, both of whom were still too young to do much.
The Drowned Town, with its sunken buildings shrouded in murky waters, became their refuge. The town is an area mostly submerged in water, although some people still live in the high towers and upper floors of buildings there. Only the tops of half-sunken towers and domes are visible as the rest is submerged in the lagoon. Below the Drowned Town are a series of wharves.
Amidst the eerie surroundings of a desolate slum, Anakin's gaze rested upon Viserys, who stood guard over their slumbering figures, his presence a beacon of comfort amidst the eeriness around them. However, since Ser Willem's passing, the Prince's true nature had emerged, exposing a bitterness that had long festered within him.
290 AC - In Braavos:
Unlike the Purple Harbor reserved for local vessels, Ragman's Harbor welcomes ships from distant lands. However, it stands in stark contrast to its opulent counterpart; poorer, dirtier, and noisier than the Purple Harbor.
Diverse individuals contribute to the lively scene around Ragman's Harbor, ranging from: porters, mummers, ropemakers, sailmenders, taverners, brewers, bakers, beggars, and whores. The waterfront is dotted with numerous establishments such as the Black Bargeman, the Foghouse, the Sailmender, and the Inn of the Green Eel.
Along these bustling quays, the trade tongue holds sway, a hybrid language nurtured by the mingling of countless cultures. Anakin's linguistic aptitude prompted Viserys to permit him to be more independent than his sister, albeit still under close supervision within the sprawling harbor district.
Two years of grim poverty had eroded the remnants of the Targaryen's former life under Ser Willem Darry's protection. Yet, for young Anakin, he was beginning to find a strange comfort in the bustling city of Braavos.
Ser Willem, his late guardian, had always believed that Anakin, destined to be crown-prince, would have thrived with the finest tutors and maesters of King's Landing. He often lamented what might have been. While the knight was alive, their life in Braavos was tightly controlled and secluded. Now, with his passing, he couldn't resist the allure of the city, slipping away from his uncle's watchful eye to explore its vibrant streets. Anakin found himself drawn to the shipyards, where the Arsenal's famous purple war galleys were being built. The meticulous craftsmanship and efficiency of their construction ignited a spark of inspiration within him.
Anakin walked alongside his family in Ragman's Harbor with his eyes following his uncle Viserys before they stopped in front of a building. "Wait here. Watch Daenerys," he said as he disappeared into a smokey and dimly lit pub.
Annoyed at the kid gloves his uncle treated him with, curiosity gnawed at him, and he turned to his aunt Daenerys, taking her small hand in his. "Come on," he said, leading her towards an alley and finding a crate outside the pub's window.
Peering inside, Anakin was transfixed by the scene unfolding within. It was a brothel, filled with scantily clad women moving languidly through the dim light, the clacks of wooden cups mingling with coarse laughter. He was rendered speechless, his young mind unable to take his eyes off the scene.
Daenerys, noticing his wide eyes, tugged at his sleeve. "What is it?" she asked, her voice soft.
"Nothing," Anakin replied hastily, shooing her away, trying to shield her from the sight.
But before he could gather his thoughts, a sudden wave of panic swept through the bustling district. The murmur of the crowd turned into a roar of fear as people ran away from the docks, yelling warnings. Pirates had invaded.
Daenerys clung to her nephew, her fear palpable. Together, they watched in horror as the invaders began their brutal attack, their savage efficiency evident. The eldest of civilians were cut down without mercy, while the younger and stronger were dragged away in chains. The horrifying realization struck Anakin with chilling clarity - they were kidnapping people.
Driven by a desperate desire to protect his aunt, he urged her towards the window of the brothel. "Get inside and find Viserys!" he commanded. Daenerys, her eyes wide with terror, obeyed, scrambling through the window into the chaotic safety of the brothel.
Suddenly, as he curiously peered out of the alley, a sharp ringing filled Anakin's ears. He stumbled, collapsing to the ground, his head throbbing with pain. He had been struck, and the world around him spun wildly. A dizzying fog clouded his senses, the chaotic scenes of the dock dissolving in and out of focus.
He could barely make out the iron grip of shackles being fastened around his wrists, the blurry figure dragging him through the bright chaos of the docks. The scene was like a fever dream: flashing blades, crimson erupting from victims onto the blood-soaked planks. His vision swam with the horrific images, the world slipping away from him.
As his consciousness faded, he glimpsed the dark maw of a ship looming ahead, the rhythmic clang of chains a dismal accompaniment to the screams and cries of the captured. He tried to call out, but his voice was lost in the cacophony. His last thoughts were of Daenerys and Viserys, a desperate hope that they had found safety.
Then, the darkness consumed him, and he eventually passed out.
291 AC - In Meereen:
To say he missed Braavos would be an understatement. Never had Anakin imagined hating his life to the degree he did now.
The months spent at sea, a stark contrast to his dreams of maritime adventures, were a living hell. Chained in the dark, surrounded by squalor and the ever-present specter of sickness, he was consumed by nausea, his stomach churning with the unrelenting rhythm of the waves. This was not the voyage he had envisioned.
When the ship finally anchored and he was herded off, the sensation of firm ground beneath his feet brought a wave of profound relief. He despised sand - it was coarse, rough, and got everywhere - but for the first time, he welcomed the gritty feeling between his hands as he collapsed onto the sandy shores. This brief reprieve was short-lived.
The pirates, led by a grim-faced man named Malko, prodded him and his fellow Braavosi captives onward. They were led away from the beach towards a verdant area near the bustling harbors. The change in scenery brought no comfort; instead, it revealed the full extent of his grim situation.
Trudging through the teeming markets, his eyes widened at the sight of countless individuals bound in chains - men, women, and children, their expressions a mix of despair and resignation. They were being auctioned off like mere objects, their humanity stripped away by the callousness of their captors.
The air buzzed with the sounds of commerce and suffering, as people were sold to the highest bidder. Slavery was a common practice in Essos, deeply ingrained for centuries. The few regions without slavery were outnumbered by those where it thrived, with the slave trade being a fundamental part of the economy.
The bidding began, and it didn't take long for Anakin to be purchased. His distinctive features, such as his white hair and purple eyes, immediately caught the attention of a wealthy young man named Grazhar zo Galare. He was captivated by Anakin's rare appearance and saw potential value in owning such a unique slave. With a few quick bids, the transaction was completed, and his fate was sealed.
As Grazhar approached him, surprisingly courteous, he inquired, "You speak the Common Tongue?"
Malko, the pirate, shot Anakin a menacing glance, urging him to respond. "Yes," he answered quickly.
"Ghiscari?" Grazhar continued, his voice laced with curiosity. "Yes," Anakin confirmed. The exchange continued swiftly: "Dothraki?" "Yes." "Qartheen?" "Yes." "Lhazareen?" "Yes."
"And you clearly speak Valyrian," Grazhar stated, impressed by Anakin's linguistic prowess.
Grazhar nodded towards Malko and his chains were passed on. Grazhar led him away and Anakin tried to focus on anything but his current predicament. He took in the bustling market with its colorful stalls and vibrant tapestry of life, but all he saw were the countless faces of despair. Grazhar, to Anakin's surprise, seemed to have a similar expression.
Grazhar possesses a well-defined and symmetrical visage. His sharp cheekbones delineate his face, while his defined jawline adds a touch of masculinity. His dark brown eyes spark with expressive intensity, framed by thick, sculpted eyebrows. Framing his face, his dark brown curls evoke a sense of wildness. His skin tone blends olive and beige hues, a testament to his diverse heritage. Standing at 5 foot 8, with a lithe and athletic physique, he exudes a lean and muscular presence that betrays a consistent fitness regimen. (Mena Massoud)
Anakin was brought to a grand pyramid in the city of Meereen, a stark contrast to the squalor of the slave market. He was introduced to Grazhar's mother, Zahrina zo Galare, a stern woman with piercing eyes that seemed to see right through him.
She appraised Anakin with a critical gaze before nodding approvingly. "He will do," she remarked, her tone devoid of any warmth.
In the arid embrace of the desert, Anakin's new attire mirrors his environment. He dons a flowing beige tunic crafted from coarse fabric, its loose drape offering comfort and mobility. Beneath the tunic lies a plain cream undershirt, peeking from the neckline for added warmth in crisp desert nights. Matching trousers conceal his form, blending into the dunes. A practical brown vest protects him from the elements, featuring multiple pockets and pouches where he can store tools and small belongings - a reflection of his resourcefulness. He also wears high-knee boots crafted from sturdy leather. However, the most despised part of his ensemble is the obligatory slave collar strapped around his neck.
Days turned into weeks as Anakin adjusted to his new life as a slave. The pyramid was luxurious, but it was a gilded cage. He performed his duties diligently, his distinctive features earning him curious glances and whispered comments from other servants and visitors.
Among the household's residents, none stood out more than Qezza zo Galare, the daughter of the masters. Qezza, two years his senior, was instantly recognizable by her wide, gentle eyes that resembled a doe's. Her nature was as radiant as her appearance, starkly contrasting with that of her father, Grazdan zo Galare, the imposing patriarch of House Galare.
As for Grazhar and Zahrina, they treated him with a kind of detached politeness, a reminder that despite the relative comfort, he was still a slave. Lady Zahrina often referred to him as 'the pretty one,' barely bothering to use his name.
Adjusting to life in the labyrinthine pyramid palace of House Galare was difficult but not impossible for young Anakin. His diverse set of abilities, including fluency in multiple languages, earned him favor within the household. He quickly mastered the dialects of Essos, his tongue effortlessly shifting from one language to another. However, Lady Zahrina's preference for female attendants and the resentment of other slaves towards his more favorable position left him isolated. His unique appearance - white hair and purple eyes - only further set him apart, making him a target of both curiosity and envy.
Anakin's interactions were usually limited to translating for Lady Zahrina, his presence a silent shadow in the grand halls. His only friend in this gilded cage was Qezza zo Galare, Zahrina's youngest daughter. At sixteen, Qezza provided a rare glimpse of childhood amidst the opulent but cold environment of the palace. Initially, Anakin remained indifferent towards her, worried that being seen interacting with a noble girl would cause him trouble. He kept his distance, his eyes downcast whenever she approached. However, Qezza was undeterred. Her curiosity and warmth broke through Anakin's guarded demeanor. She sought camaraderie, her laughter a bright spark in the dim corridors of his life. She would find him in the gardens or by the stables, her presence a balm to his weary soul. Anakin slowly opened up to her, their conversations a mix of shared stories and dreams of distant lands.
Qezza has dark brown hair, often styled in voluminous waves or intricate updos, reflecting a regal and princess-like look. Her expressive and large brown eyes convey warmth, resolve, and shrewdness. Her flawless olive-toned skin radiates, giving her a regal and exotic appearance. Symmetrical features, high cheekbones, and a graceful jawline define her face. Standing at 5 foot 5, she possesses a slender and toned body with well-defined curves, emphasizing a fit and healthy physique. Her impeccable posture and confident stride embody the spirit of a natural leader, radiating elegance, and an aura of strength. (Naomi Scott)
One afternoon, as they sat by a small fountain in the courtyard, Qezza leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. "What is Braavos like?"
Anakin hesitated, the memories painful but also precious. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke, his voice was tinged with a distant longing.
"The Titan of Braavos," he began, his eyes shimmering with nostalgia. "It's a huge statue that guards the entrance to the harbor. Every time I saw it its head seemed to touch the sky."
Qezza listened intently, her eyes wide with genuine intrigue and empathy. She could almost see the grand statue through Anakin's words, standing tall and proud against the backdrop of the sea.
He paused, a wistful smile touching his lips. "And the sea…" he continued, his voice growing warmer. "I used to play by the docks, watching the ships come and go, dreaming of adventures on the open water."
Qezza's gaze softened as she watched Anakin. She could feel the depth of his longing, the ache for a world he had lost. His words painted a vivid picture of Braavos, a world far removed from the confines of the pyramid, a world full of life and freedom.
"You must want to go back? I know you must hate us here," she said softly, her hand resting on his arm in a gesture of comfort.
Anakin's eyes hardened with determination. "Maybe one day," he replied. "And I don't hate you."
She gazed at him with incredulity. "You're lying. I know my father can't be… easy."
Anakin's silence was a heavy weight, his mind echoing with the horrors he had witnessed Grazdan inflict upon his fellow slaves. It was strange, to his surprise, Anakin found himself drawn into the plight of the enslaved.
"You're not your father," he said, his words tinged with both empathy and resolution. "Nor should you be defined by their deeds."
Anakin spoke of his own family's past, the cruel actions as explained by Ser Willem. His voice was subdued, each word weighed down by the heavy legacy he carried. He glanced at Qezza, recognizing the empathy in her eyes, a similar longing they shared to atone for transgressions they bore no responsibility for.
"My father," he began, his gaze distant, "Rhaegar, was once revered as a noble prince. But his actions led to a rebellion that tore the realm apart. And my grandfather, Aerys... he was little better. His paranoia and cruelty knew no bounds. He inflicted horrors on those who dared oppose him, and his madness ultimately brought our house to ruin."
Qezza listened, her expression a mixture of sadness and understanding. Anakin continued, his tone introspective, as if unraveling the tangled threads of his heritage aloud.
"My guardian told me these stories, not to burden me with guilt, but to help me understand. My family's history is stained with blood and betrayal. I've often wonder if everything that has happened to me is the gods' way of punishing them. Or maybe we're just destined to repeat their mistakes."
Her eyes reflected a deep understanding. She, too, was a product of a legacy that weighed heavily on her. "Well… it's like you said," she spoke softly, "We are not defined by their deeds. We may carry their blood, but we are not them."
As the sun set over the distant horizon, casting long shadows across the courtyard, Anakin felt a flicker of hope. His bond with Qezza was a small but vital lifeline, a reminder that despite the chains and collars, his spirit remained unbroken.
He clung to the hope that one day he would find a way back to freedom, back to the life he had lost. His dreams of Braavos, of the family and friends he had been torn from, kept him going. For now, he would follow Ser Willems' advice, and be patient, waiting for the moment when he could seize his destiny and reclaim his stolen future.
294 AC - In Meereen:
A few years prior, Anakin had caught the attention of the head of House Galare. Despite only serving as a translator, Grazdan considered his presence near his wife inappropriate. Lady Zahrina had to persuade not her husband not to sell the boy, as she had grown rather fond of him.
As a result, he was banished from the palace to toil alongside the laboring slaves. He partook in a variety of laborious activities, all of them back-breaking. The work in the fields was grueling, with long hours spent in the hot sun, supervised by overseers who were quick to use the whip. Tasks ranged from clearing land, mining, planting and harvesting canes by hand, to manuring and weeding.
Inside the slave quarters, the conditions were often worse, especially the heat in the boiling rooms. Additionally, the hours were long, especially at harvest time.
Anakin was unable to form any meaningful relationships with his fellow slaves, due to their resentment towards his more favored position among the masters. Witnessing first-hand the mistreatment and torture they endured, he did not hold a grudge against them. He sympathized with their suffering and detested the heinous practice of slavery.
The death rate as a slave in Meereen was high, a result of overwork, poor nutrition and work conditions, brutality and disease. Many masters preferred to import new slaves rather than providing the means and conditions for the survival of the existing ones.
Exhausted and demoralized by the incessant abuse and degradation from the masters and their overseers, Anakin, now 14, was convinced the time to escape was soon.
Despite his limited resources, his innate talent for crafting and inventing shone through, impressing anyone who bothered to ask with elaborate objects crafted from scraps and discarded materials. His fingers, though roughened by labor, deftly transformed discarded metal and wood into intricate designs, sparking brief moments of wonder in an otherwise bleak existence.
Yet, Anakin hated the fact that the memories of Daenerys and Viserys were slowly fading as the years flew by, their faces becoming a blur in the recesses of his mind. He grew to despise the masters, but in particular slavery. The yearning for freedom became a gnawing void, his spirit chafing against the collar that constantly reminded him of his lowly status as a slave.
On a scorching afternoon, as the sun beat down relentlessly, a group of weary slaves, including Anakin, made their way to the sun-drenched courtyard after toiling relentlessly in the mines. The overseers' harsh commands echoed through the barren space, where only a few dilapidated benches, the bleak slave quarters, and a grime-laden well broke the desolate expanse.
Seated alone on a bench, his hands throbbing with pain and exhaustion, he nursed his wounds when he caught the familiar figure of Qezza discreetly approaching. Despite her persistent attempts to visit him, their encounters had dwindled over the past few years.
As always, she brought him a humble loaf of bread, a meager sustenance that would barely sustain him through the arduous day that was coming to an end.
"Thank you," Anakin murmured as he consumed the bread in silence. Qezza, observing the blood on his palms, inquired about his new jobs. "Could be worse. Could be wiping your mothers ass," he replied bluntly.
Qezza laughed a bit, "Yeah, that's no fun," she agreed, before noting, "The sun agrees with you. You used to be so pale." She placed a hand on his forehead and stroked his hair, revealing his violet eyes. As he finished chewing the last piece of bread, she sat beside him, transfixed on them.
Anakin, his sandy hair tousled by the desert breeze, spoke earnestly to her about his desire to escape the confines of slavery. With determination, his gaze locked onto hers as he outlined his daring plan. "I can't stay here forever. I haven't seen my family in years. I don't even know what's become of them," he said, his voice tinged with urgency.
She listened intently, before responding, "It'll be dangerous." Anakin nodded in acknowledgement. With time, he came to recognize Qezza's steadfast support, eventually acknowledging her as his friend, a precious connection in the midst of his tumultuous life. Her expression softened, touched by his trust in her. "And then what, Annie? Where will you go?"
Anakin's gaze turned skyward, his thoughts racing beyond the confines of these walls. "Away. Anywhere but here," he replied resolutely.
Qezza smiled, the thought of aiding him crossing her mind. "We all have our callings. This city is my calling. My home. Its flaws and all," she said, her voice filled with remorse.
Anakin empathized with her sentiment. As a Meereenese native, her home held a profound bond for her, despite the cruelties it may hold. He once shared a similar sentiment when Viserys captivated him with tales of Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms.
In Anakin's mind, he knew. Meereen was not his home, and never would be. It was a city of strange men with strange gods and stranger customs, of slavers wrapped in fringed tokars, where grace was earned through whoring, butchery was art, and dog was a delicacy. Meereen would always be the Harpy's city, and Anakin could not be a harpy. He was a dragon.
Beneath the setting desert sun, Anakin and Qezza lingered in hushed companionship, sensing the weight of an impending farewell. As Anakin gently suggested she return before darkness fell, she nodded and they arose.
Their moment was shattered by the intrusion of three burly slave men. "Fine piece of ass you got there," sneered the leader as he approached.
As enslaved laborers in the fields, few were intimately familiar with the faces of the masters within the pyramid. Concealing her identity, Qezza donned a beige robe to visit Anakin, wary of being recognized as a noble.
Anakin's eyes flashed with defiance. "She was just leaving," he stated resolutely.
The men, having witnessed him openly conversing with the overseers on several occasions, harbored a longstanding animosity towards the Targaryen. Isolated from his fellow slaves, Anakin resorted to telling jokes to the overseers, usually to distract them long enough to pick their pockets, sometimes eliciting laughter. His humor, though intended to amuse, unwittingly charmed his captors while infuriating his fellow slaves.
Men enslaved all their lives and others alike had placed themselves at the top of whatever hierarchy the slaves had built for themselves, welding whatever power they had to torment him and various other slaves they deemed weak.
Anakin's empathy for the slaves' plight prevented him from provoking any conflicts, but this man was relentlessly challenging the limits of his compassion.
As they taunted and jeered at Qezza, Anakin's anger surged as he instinctively placed himself in front of her. "Leave her alone," he snarled, stretching out his hand between him and the closest man.
Unfazed, the leader of the men glared at Qezza with contempt. "A pampered house-slave like you, is she? Look at those hands," the man asserted.
But Anakin refused to waver. "Go away," he demands with a finality in his voice.
Suddenly, in a terrifying instant, a punch landed squarely on his face, throwing him off balance and to the ground. Meanwhile, another man seized Qezza, her cries drowned out by the brutality of the assault. As Anakin struggled to regain his bearings, kicks rained down on him, each blow stoking the fires of fear and fury within him. He clenched his teeth against the pain, his heart pounding with a mixture of adrenaline and dread.
The three assailants, driven by aggression and a twisted sense of power, held Qezza captive as they continued their assault on Anakin. His mind raced, calculating his options amidst the overwhelming onslaught. Summoning every ounce of strength and resolve, Anakin fought to rise from the ground, his muscles protesting with each movement. With a fierce determination, he lunged forward, striking out at the leader of these men with a well-aimed blow to the face.
"Let her go!" his voice thundered, his gaze fixed on the ringleader whose malicious intent was unmistakable.
Unfazed by Anakin's defiance, the man reacted with savage ferocity. He charged forward, enveloping the much smaller Targaryen in a crushing bear hug that threatened to crush the life from him.
Anakin's chest tightened with panic as he glanced toward Qezza, witnessing her helpless struggle against her captors. His anger, fueled by years of enslavement, erupted upon witnessing her distress, threatening to consume him like an inferno.
"What're you going to do now house-slave," the ringleader taunted him. The word 'slave' ignited a spark within Anakin, and he snapped.
In a split-second decision born of a raw, unyielding need to protect his friend and a festering rage his instincts took over. He bared his teeth, sinking them into the man's neck with savage determination.
Amidst the chaos, Anakin heard the guttural cries of pain and surprise that escaped the man's lips. A sickening crunch echoed as Anakin's bite deepened, followed by an abrupt silence as the man's hold broke. As Anakin's teeth sank into the flesh, the resistance of tissue yielded beneath his relentless bite. The metallic warmth of blood flooded his mouth, an intense flavor minging with the urgency and adrenaline of the moment. He spat out a mouthful of blood and distant gasps reached Anakin's ears as he witnessed the chilling sight of blood pooling from the wound, casting a surreal glow over the violent scene unfolding before him.
Watching the slave man collapse, desperately clutching the blood gushing from his neck, a pang of remorse washed over Anakin as he realized he hadn't thought his actions through, caught up in the heat of the moment. The horror etched upon the man's face as he reacted to the attack would forever be seared into Anakin's memory.
In that moment of violence and upheaval, his world had irrevocably shifted. He had crossed a line from which there was no return - a line drawn in blood.
The remaining two assailants froze in stunned horror, their faces contorted with a mixture of fear and disbelief at the sudden turn of events. Anakin, with the lower half of his face smeared in red and his chest heaving with exertion and adrenaline, stood amidst the scene, his eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and regret.
Qezza, freed from her captors' grasp, stared at him in shock, her features a mask of conflicting emotions, mirroring his own.
Anakin's mind raced, grappling with the consequences of his actions, even as the weight of killing a man for the first time bore down upon him.
The two men, noticing their leader slowly bleeding to death and not wanting to be implicated in the murder of a fellow slave, fled the scene.
After this action, Anakin sat down on the bench he and Qezza were previously seated on and halted to contemplate his actions. He had taken a life, a first for him. He had always grappled with the urge to kill, but never a fellow slave. His wrath had always been aimed at nobles and slave owners. The fact that it was someone who he could empathize with that met their end left Anakin reconsidering his morals, never imagining he could commit such an act. He was impulsive, driven by emotion. The sight of Qezza in danger ignited a fierce anger within him.
Anakin felt a torrent of emotions surge through him. He watched the lifeless form of the nameless slave, the weight of his actions pressing heavily on his chest. He had defended himself, but the repercussions would be severe. If a slave kills another slave, the punishment is typically death. Qezza sat down by his side, her voice soft and soothing as she offered words of solace.
"You did what you had to," she reassured him, her hand resting gently on his arm. "I'll speak to my father. I'll make sure he understands. You won't be punished for this. I promise you."
But Anakin's gaze remained fixed on the pool of blood oozing from the body, the taste of iron lingered in his mouth, and his hands felt unnaturally cold. Swiftly and resolutely, he turned to Qezza, his voice steady but urgent.
"I can't stay here," he said, his eyes reflecting a mixture of determination and fear. "I have to leave now. Now is my only chance."
Her eyes widened in alarm. "No, Anakin. Please, you can't just run. We'll find a way to explain-"
"No," he interrupted, his tone final. "This is my last chance. If I stay, they'll never forgive me. And I'll never be free."
Despite her hesitation, Qezza could see the resolve in his eyes. She wanted to argue, to convince him to reconsider, but the sound of approaching overseers cut her short. Anakin's urgency was palpable, and she knew that staying would mean certain capture.
"Alright," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'll show you out."
Together, they fled the scene, their footsteps pounding against the ground as they navigated the maze-like passages of the palace.
They burst out of the courtyard, the cool night air hitting their faces. Anakin glanced around, his mind racing to find a safe path. The distant sounds of shouting spurred them on, the overseers closing in.
"Goodbye, my friend," Anakin said, gripping Qezza's hand tightly before darting towards the Meereenese streets. Now faced with the prospect of death for his actions, he felt he had no choice but to flee, albeit hastily, as he wouldn't have any other opportunity to do so now.
Racing through the night streets, Anakin headed towards the harbors, hoping to stow away on a ship bound for the Free Cities. Knowing that he needed to be cautious to avoid being caught by the city authorities, Anakin carefully navigated through the dimly lit roads. Despite the danger, he couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement and hope as he took control of his own fate. He didn't have a solid plan for his future, but in his mind anything was better than remaining here.
After an arduous dash that spanned countless hours, the sight of the city docks emerged on the horizon, stirring hope within him. But his hopes were dashed when he heard a commotion behind him. He spun around to behold a group of overseers from House Galare talking with city guards. The realization struck that his escape had been discovered. With every ounce of energy he had left, he surged forward, desperately striving to escape the clutches of pursuers.
However, at the docks, guards lay in wait, closing in around him. Their gaze fell upon Anakin's unmistakable hair, and any hope of eluding capture vanished. His heart pounded as dread filled him, bracing himself for the consequences that lay ahead.
Once locked in a carriage cage and brought before Grazdan zo Galare it would only be thanks to Grazhar's persuasion that Anakin was able to escape death that fateful night.
Unlike other slave masters and nobles in Meereen, both Grazhar and his sister displayed a rare compassion and refrained from cruel acts of violence. Their father, on the other hand, was not as benevolent.
Over the coming days, Anakin remained confined in the scorching sun, trapped within the carriage stationed in the courtyard's center.
His bloodied face and attire only added to his disheveled appearance, teetering on the brink of dehydration and severe hunger. He was forced to endure frigid nights and sweltering days, locked within the outdoor cage.
The ordeal eventually concluded when, one night, the elderly slave master, Grazdan, and his son paid him a visit. The slave master raised a lantern near Anakin's bloodstained face, scrutinizing him with disdain. "Look at you. Disgusting. So, you like to kill, huh?" he snarled, his voice dripping with contempt. "Then that's what you'll do."
Beside Anakin, Grazhar pleaded fervently. "Father, please reconsider," he entreated, his voice tinged with desperation. "Anakin defended himself and Qezza, just as she said. Give him another chance."
The slave master's gaze turned frosty as he addressed his son. "You know nothing of discipline, son. He tried to escape," he replied coldly. "If the slave does not learn his lesson, he'll be of no use to anyone."
Remaining silent, Anakin's indifference to their discourse was eclipsed solely by his deep-seated animosity towards Grazdan. He comprehended the implicit meaning behind the old man's saying, 'that's what you'll do.'
At his age, Anakin is eligible to participate in the fighting pits of Meereen, a thought that was met with opposition from Grazhar. He urged his father to reconsider, stating that his inexperienced, would dishonor their family by meeting a quick demise in the pit.
Anakin consistently questioned Grazhar's affection for him and the other slaves. He merely presumed that the slave-trader was soft-hearted, possibly even weak. Despite his efforts, all would be in vain, as Grazdan would prevail, forcing Anakin to fight in Meereen's notorious fighting pits. If he were to decline, the consequence would be death.
These fighting pits were deeply rooted in religion, with combat being a way to honor the gods of Ghis. Bravery, expertise, and physical prowess were highly valued amongst the spectators who celebrated and rewarded the victorious warriors. Those who fell in battle were remembered and their names enshrined on the Gates of Fate, alongside other celebrated heroes.
The pits were known not only as a place of honor, but also served as a brutal sentencing for criminals who faced potential execution for their crimes. For these individuals, the pits offered a final chance to prove their innocence through combat.
The night before his first battle, Anakin had been fed, washed, and moved into a cell in the dungeons of House Galare's pyramid, where he now finds himself unable to sleep, instead plagued by a vivid and harrowing nightmare. In this terrifying dream, he was consumed by fire and agony.
Upon waking, he discovered he was no longer confined to his cell and he cautiously made his way through a dim hallway.
A bright blue light caught his attention and led him to a room with a bathhouse-like atmosphere.
His fear skyrocketed when he saw a transparent apparition with a sea-like hue before him. Despite his instinct to run, Anakin was inexplicably held in place, mesmerized by the figure. The apparition resembled an aged man with a beard.
"Anakin, it has been quite some time. I must say, you appear different with your white locks and violet eyes. Quite a transformation," remarked the spirit in a composed tone.
"Who are you? How do you know my name?" he asked the figure.
"I go by the name of Obi-Wan Kenobi. But you may address me as Ben if you so please. It's much simpler that way, wouldn't you agree?" it answers as Anakin nears. He lifts his arm in an effort to touch the apparition, but his hand simply goes right through it.
"Are you finished?" asked Obi-Wan, a touch of amusement present in his tone.
"What are you?" Anakin asked, still captivated by the specter.
Obi-Wan chuckled softly, remarking that although the Force may work in mysterious ways, his dear friend remains as curious as ever. Anakin's initial terror towards the ghostly figure began to dissipate. Obi-Wan takes it upon himself to explain the fundamental aspects of his existence - a spectral entity imbued with Force powers, a non-corporeal manifestation of a departed individual still attuned to the living world.
"What's the Force?" curiosity sparked within Anakin as he pondered why this particular word stood out among the rest.
"The Force is what gives a Jedi his power. It's an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us. It binds the galaxy together, connecting all beings and objects. Through the force, we can sense the world around us and understand the connections between all living things," Obi-Wan explained to an awestruck Anakin, who is trying to absorb all of this information as best he can.
"Those who are strong in the Force can tap into it and use it to enhance their physical and mental abilities. The Force is made up of two sides, the light and the dark. The light represents peace, knowledge, and selflessness, while the dark represents fear, anger, and aggression. Now, tell me, are you prepared for what you may have to do?" With his curiosity heightened, Obi-Wan sought to uncover which side of the Force Anakin was more aligned with at present.
He hesitated before confessing his inner conflict, "I… I didn't mean to kill that man. It's just… I hate the masters for making me do this."
"Hate is a strong emotion. It is important to find balance within ourselves and within the Force. We must learn to control our emotions and not let them control us. As you continue to grow, you will improve, you will learn to channel and harness the powers of the Force. But always remember, the Force is a tool, and it is up to you to use it for good or for ill. May the Force be with you, my old friend. Use it wisely, for your fate may depend on it."
As he was about to search for more answers, the ghost slowly faded away. His parting words to Anakin being, "We shall meet again." The Targaryen's mind was overwhelmed with unanswered questions as the ghost's explanation left many things unresolved.
"I must be going mad," muttered Anakin, standing alone in an empty room with no one to hear him. He started doubting his own sanity as his thoughts seemed to deceive him.
Before he could process his surroundings, he heard a distinctive, labored breathing coming from the doorway. Despite his intuition telling him to stay away, he was inexplicably drawn towards the noise as if it was calling out to him.
As he got closer, the breathing suddenly stopped, and he noticed two glowing lights - one green and one red coming from the dark entryway.
Without warning, the rushed breathing returned, louder and more agitated than before, and a figure emerged from the darkness. Cloaked in all black and wearing a menacing cape and mask, the individual had green and red lights emanating from their chest.
Anakin's heart stopped as he saw the person ignite a fearsome glowing red blade. He stumbled backwards in fear, unable to utter a word before being struck down by the fiery weapon.
Suddenly, Anakin woke up with a jolt, slowly realizing he was still locked up in his cell. It had all been a vivid dream, but it felt all too real. He gathered his thoughts and tried to make sense of what the dream could have meant.
The following day, as he arrived at the fighting pits, he realized his fears had been justified.
Without delay, he was handed over by Grazdan and locked up with other slaves to await their fate. Upon reaching the holding chambers, Anakin notes his lack of armor compared to the other slaves and wonders if they had encountered these kinds of situations before or were prepared beforehand, unlike him.
He is not among the first to be summoned for battle, but as he hears the clash of swords, the cries of men, and the cheers of the people, he stands up to get a better view of the intense battles taking place in the arena. With a sense of dread, he watches as men mercilessly slaughter each other for the amusement of the ruling elite.
As blood stains the sand, he begins to feel lightheaded and his legs grow weak. 'Well, isn't this just perfect,' he sarcastically mutters to himself. Living most of his life in a sandy environment it is ironic that he despised it so much.
Anakin, with little experience in combat and only basic knowledge of sword fighting taught by Ser Willem approaches the display of weaponry designated for slaves before their entry into the pits.
He closes his eyes tightly and focuses on his breathing, trying to calm himself. As he inhales and exhales, he feels a pull towards a particular weapon, as if his instincts are guiding him.
Slowly, he reaches out, wrapping his fingers around the object and opens his eyes to reveal a traditional castle-forged steel sword in his hand. Its handle is coated in a sleek matte black finish, with a smooth round pommel and a basic crossguard, completing its simple appearance.
While grasping the sword, which is both lightweight and lengthy, he experiences a heightened level of perception and becomes more attuned to his environment. Anakin begins to mentally prepare himself for what's next.
I am Anakin Targaryen, he said within himself. In his mind a dragon tried to whisper of failure, and weakness, and inevitable death, but with one hand he caught it, crushed away its voice; it tried to rise then, to coil and rear and strike, but Anakin laid his other hand upon it and broke its power with a single effortless twist. I am Anakin Targaryen, he repeated as he ground the dragon's corpse to dust beneath his mental heel, as he watched the dragon's dust and ashes scatter before the blast from his furnace heart, and you, you are nothing at all.
The moment of truth arrives as Anakin is summoned to stand among seven other fighters. The boisterous crowd, their bloodlust palpable, watches from the stands above, filling the air with the smell of violence.
Before the battle commences, a loud horn sounds, compelling the slaves to kneel and show 'respect' to the nobles in the center of the arena.
As the horn reverberates, he surveys his surroundings, noticing that his fellow combatants are all immersed in their own battles.
Breaking from his reverie, he turns to his left and sees a rugged, middle-aged man with a bushy beard and lightweight armor approaching him with an ax. Though his instinct urges him to flee, he remains frozen, transfixed by the man's slow-motion movements.
As the man bears down on him, Anakin raises his sword and expertly deflects the attack, causing the man to stumble. Holding his blade aloft, he observes as the man regains his footing and turns back towards him, clearly surprised by his defensive prowess.
The man swings his weapon repeatedly, each time Anakin nimbly evades the blows until they are locked in a fierce clash of blades.
As if it were second nature, Anakin spins his sword with a fluid flick of his wrist, severing the man's hand and sending him sprawling to the ground. "Please! Wait! Wait!" The man begs as Anakin stands over him menacingly.
Pausing to hear him out, he quickly realizes the man is reaching for a small blade hidden in his pocket with his remaining hand. Almost instinctively, Anakin reacts and swings his sword in a precise arc, effortlessly slicing the man's face in half.
As he faces yet another opponent - this time a male armed with a shield and spear, dressed in light armor and approaching aggressively - he is unable to process the moment.
The man thrusts his spear at him, but he easily deflects it with his sword. However, his opponent remains undeterred and refocuses his attack.
Anakin struggles to close the distance between them, as the spear acts as a sort of barrier. But when the opportunity arises, he grabs the spear and engages in a fierce struggle. His strength proves to be superior as he overpowers the man and sends the spear flying.
Determined to end the fight, he steadily moves towards his opponent, who now brandishes his raised shield as a weapon. With determined aim, he plunges his sword into the man's chest, causing them both to collapse on the ground. In his final moments, Anakin must face the man's dying gaze as he takes his last breath.
The relentless killing and close-quarters combat left the Targaryen shaken, but not in the way he anticipated. To his surprise, he found himself strangely drawn to the gladiatorial battle. Despite the unsettling realization that he was likely killing men forced into this arena just as he had been, he relished the competition. For the first time, his thoughts were not consumed by his inventive spirit or the shackles of slavery, but by the brutal sport of combat.
As he begins to grapple with these facts, he becomes aware of the solitary enemy remaining, who is riling up the crowd of spectators.
It dawned on Anakin that while the adversaries he has faced so far have been forced into battle, this individual appeared to have accepted his role all too willingly. Despite his reservations, Anakin is determined to kill the man, suppressing any hint of satisfaction he might feel.
He prepares himself to face his final opponent; a lightly clad enemy wielding two swords. His mind is consumed with rage towards those who have oppressed him.
Anakin meets his challenger in a fierce battle, taking a defensive stance as he skillfully fends off their attacks. Eventually, he disarms his opponent and swiftly delivers a fatal blow, cleaving them in half, from shoulder down to rib, effectively splitting them into two pieces.
In awe of the lone survivor, the audience falls into a hushed silence. The sight of a mere boy emerging victorious caught everyone off guard. Despite the surprise, cheers reverberate through the arena, while Anakin's eyes meet those of Grazhar zo Galare and his father, both in awe of his unexpected triumph.
Without a doubt, Grazdan was content with his display, showing no hesitation to cheer for the boy. On the other hand, Grazhar was thoroughly surprised by Anakin's mastery of the sword, recognizing that he was much more skilled than previously believed.
Later that night, in the heart of House Galare's subterranean labyrinth, hours had passed when Anakin was approached in the dimly lit, smoke-filled dungeons.
Amidst the stone cells, Grazdan and Grazhar made their presence known, Grazdan's gaze shimmering with a mix of greed and false camaraderie. "My boy!" exclaimed Grazdan, his voice thick with wine-induced slurring. "You've outdone yourself tonight. The crowd loves you!"
Anakin rose from the icy depths of his cell and drew near the bars, his body still coursing with the adrenaline of battle. He anticipated the coming enticements - the promises that would inevitably follow.
Grazdan, known for his jovial demeanor when intoxicated, spoke with a breath pungent with alcohol. "Listen here. You keep winning for me, and I'll make sure you have everything you could desire. Wine, women, the finest accommodations - all yours."
Disgust and resignation painted Anakin's face as he listened. He recognized these promises as mere fleeting trinkets, designed to serve Grazdan's selfish interests.
Despite a part of him yearning for a taste of the luxuries denied to him as a slave, his true desire was for freedom.
Anakin's jaw tightens. He understands the price of this supposed freedom, the chains of servitude hidden beneath the guise of rewards. But the allure is undeniable - the prospect of some semblance of freedom was too great to turn down.
Anakin's gaze met Grazhar's, who implored him with a pleading look to accept his father's proposition.
With a hardened resolve, Anakin met Grazdan's gaze directly. Slowly, he nodded, his acquiescence tainted with defiance and regret.
A triumphant grin spread across Grazdan's face, his eyes alight with the prospect of fame and profits. Anakin plastered a forced smirk, concealing the turmoil within.
As they left him in the depths of the dungeon, the weight of his choice bears down upon him.
Over the next few months, continuing this pattern of fighting in the pits, Anakin's anger has become pure hatred and he is tempted to give in to vices such as wine, women, and luxurious accommodations offered to him. However, he remains steadfast in his beliefs and refuses to indulge in these temporary pleasures.
Despite the promise of comfort and a lavish lifestyle, Anakin's mind is set on one goal: to overthrow the Great Masters of Meereen and end slavery. He has discovered a newfound strength within himself and is determined to use it to fight for what he believes in.