Chapter One: Stormlands Shadows
The wind howled like a wounded beast. Heavy sheets of rain lashed at the rugged hills, transforming the earth beneath into a thick mire of mud and slick stone. The storm roared over the jagged cliffs and dense woods, wild and unforgiving, as if the very elements of this world sought to expel an intruder. Lightning forked across the sky, illuminating the chaotic landscape in stark, violent flashes. The shadows that followed seemed to stretch unnaturally, whispering secrets Anakin could not yet decipher.
He stood at the crest of a hill, his form still, yet his mind in turmoil. The rain soaked through his simple clothes, clinging to his skin, but he barely noticed the chill that crept into his bones. His hands were bare—flesh and blood once again, not the cold, mechanical limbs he had grown accustomed to. The sensation of real touch, the warmth of his own skin, felt alien to him. His fingers flexed reflexively, almost testing their newfound freedom. They were whole, unmarked by the burns that had scarred him for so many years.
**Alive.** The word echoed in his mind, but he felt no comfort in it. This was not the afterlife he had imagined—not the peaceful oblivion of the Force that the Jedi had so often spoken of. This was something else. Somewhere else.
The Force hummed in the air around him, raw and untamed, like the storm itself. It moved differently here—wilder, more primal. He could sense life in the distance, faint presences, men huddled beneath the shelter of trees and tents. Their emotions—fear, determination, desperation—flickered through the Force, but their thoughts and intentions were a mystery.
**What world is this?** The thought came unbidden, tightening the knot of unease in his chest. This was not a planet he had ever known or heard of. No familiar constellations guided the sky, and no echo of the Empire or Republic reached him here. Was this still the galaxy he had known, or had the Force carried him somewhere beyond its reaches?
Closing his eyes, Anakin took a deep breath, allowing the Force to steady him, even as it whispered darker truths. **I am no longer Darth Vader.** The thought came unbidden, but it felt hollow. Luke had helped him remember that he could be more, but the shadow of his past still lingered. Redemption, if such a thing were possible, was not something he could claim simply because he wished it. It had to be earned. But how? In a world he did not understand, where even the air felt foreign?
His senses sharpened as the presence of others grew nearer. Down the hill, past the trees, a camp had been set up—perhaps a mile or so away. He could see the flicker of torchlight through the storm, smell the smoke of their fires battling against the wind. Men moved like shadows in the gloom, their forms and movements strange to his eyes. They carried weapons he had never seen before, and their armor was primitive, yet their spirits were hardened by something familiar. Battle. War. But who they fought for, and why, was a mystery to him.
**What war is this? Where am I?**
Anakin descended the hill slowly, his feet sinking into the mud as he approached the encampment. His steps were measured, deliberate, but inside, his thoughts churned like the storm overhead. **Why has the Force brought me here?** Was this a punishment? A second chance? Or something else entirely?
As he neared the outskirts of the camp, two sentries stepped out from the shadows, their spears raised defensively. One was older, his face lined with the weariness of too many campaigns, while the other was young, barely more than a boy, though his eyes held the hard edge of someone who had seen death up close. Both men looked soaked to the bone, their cloaks plastered to their bodies by the relentless rain.
"Halt," the older guard called out, his voice rough and suspicious. He squinted at Anakin through the gloom, clearly uncertain what to make of him. "Who goes there?"
Anakin lifted his hands in a gesture of peace, though the motion felt strange to him. The last time he had approached a guard, it had been with the intention of crushing them beneath the weight of his power. But that was not who he was anymore. At least, not who he wanted to be.
"I am a traveler," Anakin said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of authority. "I do not know this place. I need to speak to your leader."
The younger guard shifted his grip on the spear, but the older man frowned, studying Anakin more closely. "A traveler?" the man asked, his tone skeptical. "In this storm? You've got strange timing, friend."
Anakin offered no explanation. He simply held the man's gaze, letting the Force flow around him, subtly nudging the guard's mind toward trust. It was a delicate balance—he didn't want to dominate the man's will, but he needed passage into the camp.
The older guard hesitated for a moment longer before nodding. "Fine. But don't try anything funny. We've got enough trouble without some strange wanderer adding to it."
Anakin inclined his head slightly. "I mean no harm."
The guard turned and led Anakin deeper into the camp, the young soldier following behind with wary eyes. As they walked, Anakin's senses stretched out, feeling the lives around him—soldiers preparing their weapons, others nursing wounds by the fire. There was exhaustion here, but also a fierce determination. These men were fighting for something, though he didn't yet know what.
At the heart of the camp stood a large tent, its flaps billowing in the wind. The guard gestured for Anakin to wait as he approached the entrance, ducking inside to announce his arrival. Anakin stood in the rain, feeling the weight of the storm press down on him, but it was nothing compared to the burden of his past.
After a moment, the guard re-emerged, beckoning him inside. Anakin stepped into the tent, shaking off the rain as he entered. The warmth from the fire was immediate, a welcome reprieve from the chill outside.
Inside the tent stood a large man, his presence commanding. His hair was dark and wild, damp from the rain, and his beard framed a face set with determination. He wore armor, though parts of it had been hastily removed, as if he had been both warrior and tactician throughout the night.
The man looked up from the map spread across the table before him, his brow furrowing as he took in Anakin's appearance. For a moment, the two men simply stared at each other—one a rugged leader, the other a mysterious stranger in an unfamiliar land.
"Who in the seven hells are you?" the man demanded, his voice booming even over the storm outside. "And what brings you to my camp?"
Anakin met the man's gaze without flinching. "My name is Anakin Skywalker," he said, his voice steady but guarded. "I don't know where I am, but if there's a fight to be had, I can help."
The man raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Help? From a stranger who wanders in from the storm? I've got enough swords in my camp already, and enough problems besides."
Anakin stepped forward, his presence commanding even in this unfamiliar world. "I'm not just a sword," he said quietly, but with a weight that cut through the air. "I've fought in wars before. And I know how to end them."
The man's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, there was a dangerous glint in them. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face, and he let out a booming laugh. "Well then, Skywalker, if you're as good as you claim, we'll see what you're made of soon enough. We need every man who can hold his own."
Anakin allowed himself a small smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You'll find that I'm more than capable."
The storm outside raged on, but within the tent, something had shifted. Anakin could feel it in the air, in the Force. This was not the galaxy he had once known, but it was a battlefield all the same. And here, in the heart of a rebellion, he would have to decide once again who he was. Anakin Skywalker, or something else entirely.
**But the shadow of Darth Vader was never far behind.**
—
The heat of the fire in Robert's tent seemed almost unnatural after the raw cold of the storm outside, but Anakin let it warm his skin. His mind, however, remained distant, processing everything he had seen since his arrival in this strange world. The tension in the camp was palpable—men prepared for battle, but there was something more beneath the surface. Uncertainty.
Robert, now seated at the edge of a wooden chair, regarded Anakin carefully. Though he'd allowed him to stay, the skepticism in his eyes hadn't faded. Anakin was used to those looks; he had seen them many times before, across battlefields, within the Jedi Council, and through the cold visor of his mask as Darth Vader. Trust was a rare currency in times of war, and even rarer when offered to a stranger.
"You've fought in wars, have you?" Robert's voice cut through the silence like a blade, rough but curious. "Tell me, Skywalker, where do you come from? You don't sound like any man from Westeros I've ever met."
Anakin hesitated. He had no desire to explain the galaxy he came from—how could they possibly understand it? And did it matter? He wasn't sure how he had arrived here or why, but whatever brought him to this place had not yet revealed its purpose. He decided to keep it simple.
"Far from here," Anakin said, his tone neutral. "Another land, one I don't expect you've heard of."
Robert chuckled, though the sound held little humor. "Fair enough," he said, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. "But if you want to fight for me, you'll have to prove it."
Before Anakin could respond, the flap of the tent flew open, allowing a rush of cold wind to enter, followed by a soldier in a torn cloak. His face was pale, streaked with rain, and his voice held urgency as he addressed Robert.
"My lord," the soldier said breathlessly. "The scouts have returned. There's movement in the woods to the west—enemy forces, small but growing in number."
Robert's expression hardened instantly. He stood from his chair, his entire demeanor shifting into one of command. "Targaryen loyalists?" he asked.
The soldier nodded. "Aye, my lord. They're testing our lines, seeing if we've weakened."
Robert grinned, a fierce glint in his eye. He reached down beside his chair and lifted his weapon—a massive warhammer, its head scarred and worn from countless battles. The weapon suited him, a reflection of his raw power and ferocity. "Then they'll find out we're stronger than ever." He glanced back at Anakin. "Here's your chance, Skywalker. Come with me, and let's see what you can do."
Anakin hesitated for a moment, his hand drifting instinctively to his side where his lightsaber had always been. But his belt was empty. His weapon, the extension of his will, was gone. The loss was more than just physical—it was symbolic of the severed connection between the man he had been and the man he was trying to become.
Robert must have noticed the hesitation. He nodded toward the weapons lining the walls of the tent—old swords, some rusted, some polished to a keen edge. "If you need a sword," he said gruffly, "take one."
Anakin crossed the tent, his eyes scanning the blades. They were crude compared to the elegance of a lightsaber, but he wasn't in a position to be choosy.
His hand hovered over the hilt of the blade, the weight of the decision far heavier than the steel itself. A sword. Simple, deadly, but nothing compared to the elegant weapon that had once been an extension of his will—a lightsaber, a symbol of the Jedi he once was, and later, the instrument of terror wielded by a Sith Lord. This weapon was different. It had no history with him, no past tainted by his choices. Yet, as he wrapped his fingers around the hilt, he couldn't help but feel the same sensation of power, though muted, almost like an echo of what he had once known. He wondered—could he wield this blade without falling into the same patterns of destruction? Could he, for once, fight for something other than himself?
The weight of the blade felt strange in his hands. Not wrong, but foreign. It was a reminder that he was no longer the Jedi Knight or Sith Lord who had once carried a weapon of light and death. Here, he was something else—someone still trying to define himself.
As they left the tent, the storm lashed against them, relentless. Soldiers hurried about, their movements frantic but purposeful as they prepared for the coming skirmish. Anakin followed Robert through the camp, the newly acquired sword resting at his side, though it still didn't feel like his own.
At the western edge of the camp, the woods loomed ahead—dark, wet, and foreboding. Robert's men had gathered there, their armor clinking as they shifted nervously. Anakin could feel the tension rolling off them, a mixture of anticipation and dread. It was a feeling he knew well.
"We'll meet them in the trees," Robert said, gripping his warhammer tightly. "Drive them back before they have a chance to strike at us."
Anakin nodded but remained silent, his thoughts turning inward. He could sense the enemy ahead, scattered but closing in. The Force pulsed around him, its presence stronger here than it had been since his arrival. He let it wash over him, feeling the intentions of the men beyond the trees—hesitation, fear, and resolve mingled together in a chaotic tangle of emotion.
As Robert's men moved forward, Anakin hung back for a moment. He had fought countless battles in his life, but never in a world like this, never without the technology and the clarity that came with the Force in his old galaxy. Here, the Force still flowed through him, but it was different—wilder, more unpredictable. It felt almost... alive.
With the sword resting heavily at his side, he followed Robert into the woods. The underbrush was thick, the ground uneven and slick with mud. The trees loomed high overhead, their branches laden with rain, casting long shadows that danced in the flickering torchlight. Anakin moved with silent precision, his senses attuned to the life around him. He could feel the enemy forces now—small, scattered groups moving cautiously through the forest, trying to get a sense of Robert's defenses.
"Stay sharp," Robert growled under his breath, his warhammer held tightly in his hands. "They won't know what hit them."
Anakin nodded, though his mind was elsewhere. He could feel the pull of the Force, tugging at his consciousness. His instincts were finely honed from years of battle, and he let them guide his steps. Despite the weight of the sword at his hip, it was the Force that centered him, keeping him connected to his surroundings in a way that no blade ever could.
Suddenly, a rustle in the bushes ahead snapped Anakin out of his thoughts. The first enemy soldier burst out from behind a tree, sword raised. Robert let out a roar and charged forward, his warhammer swinging in a wide arc. The impact was brutal, sending the man sprawling into the mud with a sickening crunch.
More soldiers emerged from the shadows, and Robert's men surged forward to meet them. Anakin moved fluidly through the chaos, his sword cutting through the air with precision, but he could feel something building inside him—a familiar tension, a pressure that begged to be released.
It happened almost instinctively. As one of Robert's men stumbled, an enemy sword poised to deliver a killing blow, Anakin reacted. With a swift motion, he extended his hand, calling upon the Force. The enemy soldier was lifted off his feet, thrown backward into the trees with a force that left him dazed but alive.
The battlefield paused for a brief moment. All eyes turned to Anakin—Robert's men stared in shock, their mouths slightly agape, while the enemy soldiers recoiled, fear flickering in their eyes.
"Gods," one of Robert's men whispered, awe in his voice. "He's a sorcerer."
Anakin didn't flinch. He had expected this reaction, though it still unsettled him. In his old life, the Force had been a tool—a way of life, understood by those who practiced it. But here, in this strange land, it was something unknown, something feared.
Robert, however, looked at him differently. His eyes gleamed with something akin to respect, though there was a wariness there as well.
"Magic," Robert muttered, wiping blood from his mouth as he surveyed the scene. "You didn't mention you could do that."
Anakin said nothing, only inclined his head slightly. There would be time to explain, or perhaps there wouldn't. Either way, he knew this world would never fully understand what he was—or what he had been.
As the last of the enemy soldiers retreated into the forest, Robert's men regrouped, their eyes darting between Anakin and the shadows beyond. The skirmish had ended, but something else had begun. The men had seen what he could do, and though they followed Robert, Anakin could feel their unease.
Robert approached Anakin, his warhammer resting against his shoulder. His grin was fierce, but his voice carried a hint of caution. "Well fought, Skywalker," he said, clapping a hand on Anakin's shoulder. "You weren't lying about your skills. But I've seen many things in my time, and what you just did… that was something else."
Anakin nodded, though his thoughts remained distant. "There will be more fights," he said quietly, more to himself than to Robert. "There always are."
Robert chuckled, but it was a low, wary sound. "Aye, that there are. But you fight well. Keep that up, and you'll have more than just a place in my army—you'll have respect. Just be careful with that magic of yours. Westerosi folk don't trust what they don't understand."
The storm raged on around them, but within the woods, the battle had quieted, leaving only the echoes of what had just transpired. Anakin stared out into the darkened forest, wondering what battles still lay ahead—and whether he would ever be free of the war within himself.
The camp remained quiet after the skirmish, though a palpable tension lingered in the air. Anakin could feel the eyes of Robert's men on him as they went about their tasks—some glancing with awe, others with fear, and a few with suspicion. He could hear their murmurs in the wind as they gathered around the fires, whispers of "magic" and "sorcery" slipping through the cracks of the storm.
Anakin stood at the edge of the camp, his back to the roaring flames. The sword at his side felt heavier now, its weight symbolic of the burdens he carried. He had fought many battles, and though he had tried to leave his past behind, it seemed to follow him wherever he went.
His gaze drifted to the horizon, where the storm clouds continued to churn and swell, casting shadows across the land. The rain had lessened, but the sky remained dark, oppressive. It was as if the storm itself mirrored the turmoil within him, a reminder that peace would always be fleeting.
"Not much for talking, are you?"
The voice broke through his thoughts, and Anakin turned to find one of Robert's men standing nearby. He was tall, with a thick beard and the look of a seasoned soldier. His armor was battered, his cloak soaked through, but there was a lightness in his eyes, an ease that Anakin found almost disarming.
The man grinned, stepping closer. "I'm Jon Penrose," he said, offering a hand. "You're the one who threw that soldier halfway across the woods, right?"
Anakin studied the man for a moment before shaking his hand. "Anakin Skywalker."
Penrose nodded, glancing at the sword at Anakin's hip. "That was... something back there. I've seen a lot of things in my years fighting with Robert, but nothing like that."
Anakin shrugged slightly, keeping his tone neutral. "It's a skill I've honed for a long time."
"Aye, a skill," Penrose chuckled, though his voice held a note of disbelief. "If that's what you want to call it. Just be careful around the others. Magic, or whatever it is you do, doesn't sit well with most folk around here."
Anakin nodded, though he felt no need to explain himself further. He had long since grown accustomed to being viewed as something other, even before he had donned the armor of Darth Vader. The Force had always set him apart, made him different. Here, in Westeros, it seemed that difference would once again place him at odds with those around him.
Penrose lingered for a moment longer before offering a nod of farewell. "Well, you've got a place here as long as you fight like that. Robert will appreciate a man with your... talents." He gave a short laugh before turning back toward the campfire, leaving Anakin alone with his thoughts once more.
Anakin watched him go, the sounds of the camp gradually resuming their rhythm around him—voices murmuring in the distance, the clink of armor being removed and weapons sharpened. But despite the activity, a certain stillness began to settle over the camp. The rain had eased to a drizzle, and the distant rumble of thunder had faded to a soft hum on the remained where he stood for a moment, staring out at the men huddled around the fires, their faces shadowed and tired. This war was new to him—its causes, its players—but the weight of battle was not. He could feel it in the air, thick and heavy, just as it had been in his past life. War never a soft sigh, he turned and made his way to one of the fires. The heat was welcome against the cool night air, and for a moment, he let himself be still, his mind quiet for the first time since he'd arrived in this storm had finally begun to subside, leaving the camp in a state of quiet recovery. The fires crackled softly, and the smell of wet earth and burnt wood mingled in the cool night air. Anakin sat by the fire, staring into the flickering flames, his thoughts still churning. He had agreed to fight for Robert, but this world remained a mystery to him—its wars, its politics, even its geography. He knew nothing, and yet, the Force had led him here.
The storm had finally begun to subside, leaving the camp in a state of quiet recovery. The fires crackled softly, and the smell of wet earth and burnt wood mingled in the cool night air. Anakin sat by the fire, staring into the flickering flames, his thoughts still churning. He had agreed to fight for Robert, but this world remained a mystery to him—its wars, its politics, even its geography. He knew nothing, and yet, the Force had led him here.
He needed answers.
As if on cue, Robert Baratheon approached the fire, his heavy steps causing the muddy ground to squelch beneath his boots. He sat down beside Anakin with a grunt, tossing a piece of firewood into the flames. The crackling intensified, casting their faces in an orange glow.
"You fight well, Skywalker," Robert said, his voice low but steady. "But you don't seem like a man who knows this land."
Anakin nodded, his brow furrowing slightly. "I don't. I've come from far away... a place unlike anything here." He paused for a moment, then turned his gaze to Robert. "I need to understand what's happening. Who are you fighting? And why?"
Robert's eyes gleamed in the firelight, and a small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You truly know nothing of this land, do you?"
Anakin shook his head. "No. Not a thing."
Robert leaned back, resting his hands on his knees. He took a deep breath before speaking, as if he were about to recount a tale that had weighed heavily on him for some time.
"This is Westeros," Robert began, his voice growing more serious. "A kingdom divided into seven great regions, ruled by powerful families. But the man who sits on the Iron Throne—the king of it all—is a madman. Aerys Targaryen. He was once a king like any other, but power twisted him. Now, he burns men alive for speaking against him, kills anyone who dares defy him, and surrounds himself with sycophants who do nothing but fuel his madness."
Anakin listened closely, his gaze never leaving Robert. He had seen power corrupt men before—seen how the dark side could consume even the most well-intentioned. In some ways, this world was not so different from his own.
"And you fight him?" Anakin asked.
Robert nodded firmly. "Aye. We rebel against him. Not long ago, the king's son, Rhaegar Targaryen, kidnapped Lyanna Stark—my betrothed. That was the final insult, the spark that lit this rebellion. But the truth is, this fight is about more than Lyanna. It's about justice. Freedom. Stopping a madman before he destroys everything."
Anakin considered Robert's words carefully. The Targaryens—the rulers of this land—were clearly a powerful family, but there was more to this war than just a personal vendetta. It was a fight for control of the entire kingdom, and Robert believed himself to be the man who could set things right.
"And where are we now?" Anakin asked, his tone cautious. "In this rebellion, I mean. How far has it spread?"
Robert sighed, running a hand through his wet hair. "We're still early in the fight, but it's moving quickly. The first battle have been fought, and I've won victory in the Stormlands, my home. But the loyalist forces—the men still loyal to the king—are strong. We need to rally our allies there before we can strike back at the Targaryens in full force."
Anakin nodded, absorbing the information. The rebellion was far from over, and the real fight had yet to begin. The Riverlands, the Iron Throne, and the Targaryens—these names were beginning to make sense to him now, painting a picture of a world on the brink of change. And he had been thrust into the middle of it.
"And what happens next?" Anakin asked, his voice calm but determined.
Robert's expression hardened. "It's the overall plan for us to we march north to the Riverlands. There, I'll join with Ned Stark, Jon Arryn, and Hoster Tully. Together, we'll face the loyalist armies. But first we are set to take Ashford. Its a major part of the Tyrell supply line. With it under our control, we can hamstring the Reach's efforts to send troops north"
Anakin nodded again, his resolve strengthening. "I'll be ready."
Robert clapped a hand on his shoulder and grinned. "Good. We need men like you—men who aren't afraid to fight for something greater than themselves."
Anakin stared into the flames, his thoughts racing. He still had no idea why the Force had brought him to this world, but perhaps there was a reason for it all. Perhaps, in fighting this war, he could find a new purpose—a way to make up for the darkness that had once consumed him.
The camp was a hive of activity as dawn began to creep over the horizon, casting a pale light over the rain-soaked ground. The fires had burned low, little more than glowing embers now, and the once-frenzied storm had dwindled to a gentle mist that clung to the earth like a veil. Men moved quietly through the camp, their voices hushed as they packed their gear, checked their weapons, and prepared for the long march ahead.
Anakin stood on the edge of the camp, the sword Robert had given him resting comfortably at his side. He could feel the weight of the upcoming battle pressing down on the soldiers around him. Their fear and uncertainty rippled through the Force, but so too did their determination. These men were hardened by war, their spirits forged in the fires of rebellion. Anakin could sense their loyalty to Robert, a fierce devotion that mirrored his own once-steadfast allegiance to causes that had ultimately led him down a darker path.
Now, that path seemed distant, yet its shadow remained, lingering just beyond the reach of the light.
Robert strode through the camp with purpose, his armor gleaming despite the dull morning light. He barked orders to his men, his voice carrying over the soft murmur of the camp, and though there was a weariness in his eyes, his presence was undeniable. He moved with the confidence of a man who had won many battles, but Anakin could see the weight of leadership in the way Robert's shoulders stiffened as he passed each group of soldiers.
Robert approached Anakin, his eyes scanning the horizon. "It's a long march to Ashford," he said, his voice gruff but steady. "The Tyrells are strong, but we've the advantage of surprise. If we can take Ashford, we'll cripple their support in the Reach. The battle there will set the tone for the rest of this war."
Anakin nodded. "And if we fail?"
Robert glanced at him, a brief flash of something unreadable passing across his face before he quickly masked it. "Then we regroup. We retreat to the Riverlands, where our allies await. We'll fight until the last of them is broken or we are."
The words were spoken with Robert's usual bravado, but Anakin sensed the underlying tension beneath them. This battle would not be won easily, and Robert knew that. The rebellion, despite its early victories, was far from certain.
"The men are ready," Anakin said, his voice calm. "But there's fear in them. They know what's at stake."
Robert snorted, though his tone wasn't unkind. "Fear? Every soldier feels fear before a fight. It's what you do with that fear that matters." He turned to Anakin, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. "And you? Do you feel it?"
Anakin felt a bitter smile tug at his lips.
Fear—he had once been its slave. It had driven him to unimaginable lengths, twisting his mind and body until all that remained was the hollow shell of Darth Vader.
Fear of loss, fear of death, fear of failure. It had been a constant companion, whispering lies until they became truths he could no longer distinguish. But now, standing here in a world far removed from the one that had seen his rise and fall, he wondered if fear still held sway over him. Or had it finally burned out, leaving only the ashes of a man trying to find his way back to the light?
Anakin met Robert's gaze evenly. "I've fought in many battles. Fear is a companion I know well. But I'm not afraid of dying—not anymore."
Robert studied him for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Aye, I believe you. There's something different about you, Skywalker. That trick you pulled in the woods, sending men flying without lifting a finger—that wasn't just skill." He glanced at Anakin's hands, his gaze lingering for a moment before he continued, "I've seen many things in this war, but nothing like that. Just don't go pulling that sorcery when we're in the middle of a fight—save it for when it'll break the enemy, not my men's spirits."
Anakin offered a small nod. He understood the concern. His abilities, while powerful, were foreign here—misunderstood, feared, and seen as a form of magic. He had learned long ago that power, used carelessly, could create more fear than respect.
"I won't," Anakin said quietly, the weight of his past trailing behind his words. "I know when to use it."
Robert nodded, satisfied. "Good. We'll need every advantage we can get. Just be sure it's one that leaves us standing at the end of it."
Anakin clenched his jaw as Robert turned away.
How many times had he used the Force to bend the will of others, to crush those who stood in his path? Power, he had once believed, was the only way to bring peace. But that peace had been an illusion, built on the bones of the innocent and the guilty alike.
Now, the Force felt different in this world—wilder, yes, but also freer, unburdened by the rigid philosophies of the Jedi or the dark corruption of the Sith.
Perhaps, in this land of kings and rebels, he could find a new way to wield it. Not as a weapon of dominance, but as something else... if only he knew what that was.
Robert clapped Anakin on the shoulder bring and then turned away, barking orders at his men once more. The camp began to shift around them, the soldiers falling into line as they prepared to march. Horses were saddled, wagons loaded with supplies, and the quiet of the morning was gradually overtaken by the sounds of preparation for war.
Anakin lingered a moment longer, his gaze drifting to the horizon. Ashford awaited them, and with it, the first true test of his place in this world. He had agreed to fight alongside Robert, to take up arms in a cause that was not his own, but the uncertainty still gnawed at him.
**What am I fighting for?**
The question had plagued him since he had arrived in Westeros, and the answer still eluded him. But as the camp began to move, as the sound of marching feet and the clatter of armor filled the air, he felt a small flicker of something—hope, perhaps—begin to take root in the corners of his mind. He was no longer the man he had been, but he was not yet the man he needed to become.
The camp, once alive with the sounds of preparation, now moved as a single entity, a tide of men and steel sweeping across the land. The rhythmic clanking of armor, the creak of leather, and the soft thud of boots sinking into the wet earth formed a steady cadence.
The soldiers moved in grim silence, their faces set with the knowledge of the battle to come. Anakin walked among them, his senses attuned to the shifting moods of the men around him—some nervous, some resolute, but all driven by a singular purpose.
The steady rhythm of marching feet reminded him of the clone troopers he had once commanded. Their loyalty had been unwavering, their trust in him absolute. And yet, he had betrayed them all—betrayed the Jedi, the Republic, everything he had once stood for. As he marched now among men who had no idea of the horrors he had wrought in another life, Anakin felt the weight of his past pressing down on him, heavier than the sword at his side. Could he truly leave it all behind? Was there redemption in this new world, or was he doomed to repeat the same mistakes, walking in the shadow of Darth Vader until the end of his days? He didn't know. The Force had brought him here for a reason, but its will was as mysterious and unknowable as ever.
The storm had passed, but its shadow lingered over the march, a reminder that darker days still lay ahead.
Anakin Skywalker followed, ready to face whatever awaited him on the battlefield.