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, she called for her only remaining son, Viserys.
Holding his year-old nephew, Anakin, in his arms, the five-year-old 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 as far as I go." Viserys struggled to comprehend his mother's final words as she confided in him.
Rhaella always tried to hide the worst of The Mad King's behavior from her children, not wanting to frighten them. Aerys may not have been as unstable earlier in his life when their first son 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, on the other hand, 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, that would not be the case, and after Prince Rhaegar's death at the hands of Robert Baratheon at the Battle of the Trident, Aerys spiraled into a frenzy, demanding that Anakin, Rhaegar's firstborn son and one of his few remaining heirs, be taken from his mother, Elia Martell.
Separating them had been a torment for Rhaella, and the cries of her three-year-old granddaughter, Rhaenys, only added to her guilt. The poor girl was saddened to part ways with her baby brother, and it caused Rhaella great distress to leave her in such a perilous situation with her mother. The Mad King's orders were final however, and she assured the Dornish woman and her granddaughter that she would keep her grandson safe.
Now, as her last breath neared, Queen Rhaella's 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 her memories and 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 his mother's crown in his hands, its jewels catching the light as tears welled in his eyes.
Amidst his sobbing he 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 nursery, where his mother's handmaidens had hidden them away. But it would seem the castle was no longer safe.
Moments later, Ser Willem Darry emerged, his armor splattered with blood, holding the two Targaryen 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 is coming. Some amongst the castle wish to turn you over."
As it turned out, the garrison on Dragonstone was contemplating the idea of selling the three Targaryen heirs to the newly crowned King Robert I Baratheon. However, before they could make a decision and before Stannis Baratheon, the king's younger brother, could launch his attack on Dragonstone, Willem and four of his loyal men infiltrated the nursery. Though he lost his men in the process, Willem successfully escaped with the two infants.
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.
They moved swiftly and silently through the castle under the cover of night, avoiding the gaze of those who had once sworn to protect them but now sought to betray them. Ser Willem brought 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. Willem introduced himself formally to the young Prince, his voice steady despite the turmoil around them. "I am Ser Willem Darry, sworn knight to House Targaryen. Your mother entrusted your protection to me, My Prince. 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 and his eyes are a distinctive blue, adding intensity to his gaze. *Liam Neeson*
Viserys looked at the knight. 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, he nodded, his expression a mixture of grief and apprehension for the uncertain future that lay ahead.
287 AC - In Braavos:
In the stillness of the afternoon, Daenerys Targaryen sat cross-legged on the floor, her silver hair cascading down her back as she recited the ancient history of Braavos in High Valyrian. Her young voice carried the cadence of the language effortlessly, the words flowing like a song as she spoke.
Beside her, Anakin listened in quiet admiration. Though only a year older, he already felt a deep sense of responsibility for his little aunt, who was clearly more like a sister to him. He has an unusual maturity, even as a child, and with that, a sharp awareness of the world around him - its dangers, and its sorrows.
When Daenerys finished, Anakin smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with pride. "You speak Valyrian well. Almost as good as me," he said with a childish arrogance.
She returned the smile, though there was a shadow in his gaze that she didn't notice. "Thank you, Annie," Daenerys replied, her tone soft. But her mind was elsewhere, already pulling her back to a promise they'd made earlier. "Can we go now? You promised," she added, eager to move the conversation away from language and history. "You remember? Where you said we could go if I read it all?"
Anakin hesitated, glancing at the door. "Ser Willem won't be happy…" he began, but trailed off.
Their guardian had been distant lately, his presence in the house growing fainter as the days passed. Anakin saw it plainly: Ser Willem Darry was fading. The old knight, once so strong and commanding, now shuffled through their home like a ghost, his steps slow and labored, leaning heavily on his stick. While Anakin saw the truth of it, Daenerys was still too young, too hopeful. She believed Ser Willem was merely ill and would soon recover.
"He's just sick, he'll get better," Daenerys said with a naive certainty.
Anakin didn't argue, but deep down, he knew better. Death had been on his mind often these days, lingering in the shadows of their once-vibrant home. He could feel it coming for Ser Willem, like a storm on the horizon. The thought of losing the man who had been like a father to him scared him in a way he couldn't describe. Willem had taught him everything he knew - about honor, about loyalty, about their house. Even with a sword, though that too had stopped when the old man's health had deteriorated. Now, he could barely stand, let alone train.
A heavy silence filled the room, but Anakin pushed it away, rising to his feet and offering his hand to Daenerys. "Very well. Come on, Dany." She smiled brightly and allowed him to help her up.
Together, they snuck out of the house. The two of them maneuvered around the household servants and exited through the red entrance door, strolling past the lemon tree in the courtyard, while Daenerys held her black kitten tightly in her arms.
Their home, though large and grand, felt more like a cage lately.
Once they were away, Anakin took her hand again, leading her out into the streets of Braavos. The city was alive with sound and movement, the canals teeming with gondolas, and the narrow streets crowded with people.
But Anakin navigated the maze-like city with ease, moving confidently through the crowds. He had been out here many times before, even though Ser Willem had forbidden it.
Daenerys clutched the kitten to her chest as they walked, glancing up at her nephew with curious eyes. "You've been out here a lot, haven't you?" she asked, suspicion in her voice.
Anakin only smiled in response, leading her toward their destination. She had been skeptical, but he was confident in where they were going, and his certainty reassured her.
It wasn't long before they reached the Dome, a mummer's playhouse near the northern shore of the city. The area was more refined than the rest of Braavos, and the performances here were famous for their subtlety and artistry. Anakin had discovered a hidden passage in the back of the playhouse long ago, and he used it now to sneak them inside.
Daenerys's face lit up with joy as they slipped into the darkened theater, and they found a spot where they could watch unnoticed.
The show was a spectacle - comical dwarfs, a dancing bear, and monkeys trained to perform tricks. For a time, all the heaviness in their lives was forgotten, replaced by the lightness of the performance.
But then, something unexpected happened.
One of the actors was handed a dagger for a dramatic scene, and in the midst of the play, the blade struck another performer. What should have been a trick turned to horror as the woman fell on the stage, blood pooling beneath her.
For a moment, the audience remained frozen, uncertain whether this was part of the act. But backstage, chaos erupted. The performer who had delivered the fatal blow stood paralyzed, staring at her bloodstained hands, her face twisted in terror.
Anakin was quick to notice that this all looked too real. He acted on instinct, pulling Daenerys close to him, shielding her from the sight. He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her face into his chest so she couldn't see the blood, couldn't see death creeping into their world.
He hurried them out of the theater before she could realize what had truly happened.
Once they were outside, Daenerys looked up at him, confusion in her eyes, but she smiled softly. "Thank you for taking me, Annie. That was wonderful," she said, oblivious to the tragedy they had just witnessed.
'Wonderful, she says,' Anakin mentally repeats as he forces a smile, nodding as he holds her hand a little tighter. But his thoughts were far from wonderful. He couldn't stop thinking about Ser Willem. He couldn't stop thinking about death, his fear of it.
Death, he thought, was a terrifying thing. And it comes for all.
Upon returning to their home, in front of the red entrance door, Anakin and Daenerys breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Ser Willem and Viserys had yet to return, and the absence of their guardian gave them a fleeting sense of freedom.
The weight of what they had witnessed in the mummer's playhouse still lingered in the back of his mind, though he hadn't let it show.
He led Daenerys to the courtyard where the lemon tree stood, its branches swaying gently in the evening breeze. They settled beneath its shade, the light of the sun casting long shadows across the ground. For a moment, there was peace.
But then Daenerys's face grew tense as she suddenly realized something was missing. Her eyes widened with panic, and she sat up abruptly. "W-Where's Lady Whiskers?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Anakin blinked, pulling himself out of his thoughts. The cat. He had completely forgotten about it in the chaos of the theater.
Daenerys, already near tears, stared at him, her distress palpable. She was trying to hold it in, but her lower lip quivered as her mind raced through all the terrible possibilities.
'Daenerys really is such a crybaby. The cat will probably find its own way home anyways,' Anakin thought, but the thought was fond, almost protective. He watched her for a moment, her face crumpling with the sadness only a child could express. It was in these small moments - her fragility, her wide-eyed innocence - that he felt the deepest affection for her. She wasn't perfect, but it was her imperfections that made her so endearing to him. He sighed, knowing he would do anything to ease her sadness. He was becoming easily swayed by her distress, a fact that both amused and frustrated him.
Rising to his feet, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Go inside," he said gently. "Don't worry. I'll find Lady Whiskers."
"Promise?" Daenerys gazed at him with her sorrowful, puppy-like eyes that softened his heart.
He nods, giving her a quick while at the same time rolling his eyes. "I Promise."
She finally nodded back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, trusting him implicitly.
With one last glance at her, Anakin turned and began retracing their steps through the winding streets of Braavos.
The cool air filled his lungs as he followed the path back to the Canal of Heroes, his mind still buzzing with what he had seen earlier at the mummer's play. The blood, the fear - it had stirred something deep within him. But for now, he pushed it aside. The task at hand was simple: find the cat, return home, to Daenerys.
As he approached the bridge over the canal, he spotted what he had been searching for. Down by the riverbank, the black kitten was playing with a few other strays, weaving between the reeds and rocks with the carefree energy of a wild thing.
He began to descend the hillside toward the kitten, but as his boots hit the damp ground, the little feline bolted. "Typical," Anakin muttered under his breath. He wasn't surprised; the kitten had been a stray when he found it, wild and untamed. It had always been a little unpredictable, but for Daenerys's sake, it had softened - just enough for her to love it. Yet now it had returned to its old habits, slipping out of reach when it was needed most.
Anakin, in mild frustration, followed, his feet carrying him further from the familiar streets and deeper into the unfamiliar parts of Braavos.
The surroundings began to change. The bustling merchants and vendors gave way to a quieter, more mysterious district. Blacksmiths' forges roared nearby, and the sounds of nightlife echoed faintly through the air as the sun hung high. The streets here were narrower, more winding, and as Anakin wandered further, he realized he was in unknown territory.
Soon, he found himself standing before a massive red structure - the Temple of the Lord of Light, R'hllor: The Red Temple of Braavos.
It rose from the horizon like a beacon, its crimson stone stark against the deepening twilight. Situated on an island at the convergence of the Canal of Heroes and the Long Canal, the temple was connected to the rest of Braavos by a massive stone bridge. Atop the temple, an enormous iron brazier crackled with fire, casting flickering light over the water below. Smaller braziers lined the entrances, their flames burning steadily, defying the ocean wind.
Anakin stood still for a moment, staring at the imposing structure from across the bridge. There was something about it that tugged at him, pulling him forward. He had seen this place before - perhaps not in waking life, but in dreams. Dreams he barely remembered, yet they always left him with a vague sense of unease, as though they called to him from across time and space.
Without fully realizing what he was doing, he crossed the massive bridge, the sound of his footsteps echoing on the stone beneath him. The waves crashed against the shores of the island, their rhythmic pounding a constant background hum.
Anakin's senses sharpened as he approached the temple. He paused at the base of the temple steps, his gaze drawn to one of the iron braziers nearby. He stared at the fire, mesmerized.
And then he heard it - a voice, clear and insistent, rising from the flames. "Are you the one?"
Anakin froze, his breath catching in his throat. The voice wasn't human; it was something more. It wasn't just a whisper - it was a presence. He felt it all around him, pressing against his skin, urging him closer.
In the flames images formed before his eyes. A woman with dark, sad eyes. A man with silver hair falling in battle. A girl, even younger than Daenerys, reaching out for help as flames consumed her. An older woman, regal yet broken, standing over the body of a dead king. They were faces Anakin didn't know, but the pain in their eyes was unmistakable. They had all suffered. And then, like a final blow, he saw a baby - tiny and vulnerable - wrapped in bloodied swaddling cloth, unrecognizable.
Anakin stumbled back, the force of the vision overwhelming him. He felt a surge of dizziness, his heart pounding in his chest as the faces blurred and faded, leaving him disturbed. He didn't know these people, but something deep inside him recognized their suffering. It was as though he was tied to them, to their pain, or worse, to their fate.
When the vision passed, Anakin looked around and found himself standing in the exact spot he remembered. The brazier still burned, its flames undisturbed by what had just happened. He shook his head, trying to dispel the lingering images from his mind.
They were just figments of his imagination, he told himself. But the feeling of connection remained, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. Whatever this place was, whatever power had reached out to him, it wasn't real. Yet he felt like it was.
The towering doors of the temple loomed before him, etched with strange symbols he couldn't decipher. For a moment, Anakin considered stepping inside, following the pull of whatever force had drawn him here.
But as he edged closer up the steps and towards the entrance of the towering red temple, a firm grip suddenly clamped down on his shoulder. He whirled around, startled, only to see Ser Willem standing behind him, his face etched with anger.
"Are you completely mad?!" The knight's voice trembled, his usual calm demeanor replaced by a ragged, urgent tone Anakin had never heard before. His eyes were wide with anger, an expression foreign to the man he had always known as steady and unwavering. His breath came in short, uneven bursts as if he had been running, perhaps for longer than even he had realized.
Anakin opened his mouth, fumbling for an explanation. Words tumbled out in a rush, his voice laced with panic. "I-I was looking for Daenerys's kitten, i-it ran off, and…and I-I didn't mean to-"
But two things silenced him mid-sentence: the iron resolve in Ser Willem's eyes and the inky blackness of the night sky above them. The sun had not even been setting when he first arrived at the temple. How could it be night already? Anakin's mind raced, piecing together the surreal shift in time.
His heart pounded in his chest as Willem's grip tightened around his wrist, dragging him back through the now quiet streets of Braavos. The knight's expression remained stormy, his jaw clenched with unspoken worry, the deep lines on his face making him look even older, and even frailer, than he ever had before.
When they finally arrived at their home, Ser Willem pushed the red door open, his frown deepening as they stepped inside.
Anakin's eyes immediately landed on Daenerys and Viserys.
Daenerys, standing near the hearth, looked up with wide, tear-filled eyes as she rushed toward him, throwing her arms around him in an agonized embrace. "Where were you?!" she cried, her voice trembling with both fear and relief. "You were gone for so long, I-I thought-" Her words dissolved into wimpers, her small frame trembling against him.
Anakin stood there, stunned, guilt washing over him as he saw through the window the faintest hint of morning light paint the sky outside, realizing he wasn't just gone for hours, but all night.
He glanced at Viserys, sitting brooding in the corner, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Viserys's face was a strange blend of worry and frustration, disappointment etched into his sharp features. Anakin had expected mockery or jeering from his older uncle, but what he found in Viserys's gaze unsettled him even more: genuine concern.
Ser Willem's voice cut through the tension, his tone commanding. "To your chambers. Both of you. Now." There was no arguing with the old knight tonight.
Anakin approached Daenerys before her departure. "Sorry," he said, "I lost Lady Whiskers."
Daenerys was engulfed in her own remorse for sending him to search for her cat, which she lost. Despite appearances she understood all too well how easily she could influence her nephew, but she had never imagined it would lead to harm - until now.
She wrapped her arms around him. "I'm so sorry I made you look for her," she whispered, giving him one final squeeze and a gentle kiss on the cheek before she and Viserys ascended the stairs, trailed by a few servants who had quietly observed the exchange from the shadows.
Now alone with Ser Willem, Anakin felt the weight of the night's events pressing down on him. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, and the atmosphere in the room seemed heavy, as though the very air was thick with unspoken words.
"You're smarter than this," Ser Willem said, his voice tired. "What were you thinking?"
Anakin opened his mouth, but no words came. He could only stammer out a feeble, "I-I'm sorry."
Ser Willem let out a long, weary sigh, shaking his head. "My Prince, I know you feel… trapped here. But you cannot go running off into the night. Especially not to places like that. Do you understand?"
Anakin's shoulders sagged. He nodded, though the sting of his missteps still burned in his chest.
The old knight leaned closer, his tone softening, though the gravity of his words deepened. "Anakin, do you know why we had to flee our homeland? Why we are here in exile?" His voice, though kind, carried the weight of something far greater than any child should bear.
Anakin hesitated, but he recounted the tales Viserys had told him: stories of the War of the Usurper, the downfall of their house, the lost throne. Stories of their ancestors, dragons, and war. Tales of reclaiming what had been taken from them. His words came quickly, eager to prove that he knew.
Ser Willem listened patiently, nodding along, correcting minor inaccuracies. But then, the old knight's face grew more somber, more thoughtful. "There is more than just the stories your uncle has told you," Willem said quietly, his gaze heavy with the weight of long-kept secrets. "Your father, Rhaegar, and your family… Many would say they weren't completely innocent in all this."
Anakin's heart clenched as Ser Willem recounted the full tragedy - how his mother, Elia Martell, had been murdered, how his sister Rhaenys had been killed, and even of his father's abduction of Lyanna Stark. The brutal deaths of those he never knew, but who were tied to him by blood, came to life in his mind like ghosts. The weight of their suffering bore down on him, more real than any of Viserys's stories.
The visions he had seen in the fire earlier now made a strange, horrible kind of sense. The pain, the death - they were not just nightmares. They were memories, somehow buried deep within him.
Ser Willem placed a gentle hand on Anakin's shoulder, sensing the turmoil inside him. "I know how you must feel… The loss. I've done my best to protect you and your family, but I won't be here forever. And when I'm gone you must be strong, My Prince. Wise."
He looked up at Ser Willem, his throat tight. The knight's weathered face, etched with both care and exhaustion, revealed a man facing his own end.
"I don't want things to change," Anakin whispered, though the words felt small, inadequate.
Ser Willem gave him a small, sad smile. "But you can not stop the change. Anymore than you can stop the sun from setting," he said with a grave tone.
That night, Anakin lay awake in his bed, tears slipping down his cheeks despite his attempts to hold them back. The weight of the revelations, the burden of his family's tragic past, hurt him. The images of fire, of his mother and sister, haunted him still.
He was startled when Daenerys climbed into his bed, silently wrapping her arms around him in a comforting embrace. She sensed his sadness, even when he tried to hide it. Together, they lay in the quiet, their bond unspoken but stronger than ever.
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 adventurous spirit was already making him a handful. Despite being just seven name-days, he exhibited an intellectual acuity that eclipsed his uncle, who was four years his senior. Ser Willem observed how swiftly the boy learned and adapted to his every situation.
The knight felt a pang of regret when he realized that his weary body hindered his ability to guide Anakin with the blade 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.
He would know best after all, since when young Prince Rhaegar first decided that he must be a knight, it had been Ser Willem he sought out for training. 'I will require sword and armor. It seems I must be a warrior,' the young prince had told him.
When a new master-at-arms was required for the Red Keep, Lord Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King at the time, intended to appoint his brother Ser Tygett to the position. However, King Aerys opted for Willem instead. Given this, it was only logical that the Prince had turned to him.
Yet, now, as he contemplated Anakin's future, he grew heavy with fear. The boy's compassion and inherent nature were still uncertain things, and Willem feared he might not be there 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 Targaryen children that had become like his own.
In the other room, as sleep finally overtook him, Anakin's last thoughts lingered on Ser Willem. The knight was fading, and soon, he knew, he would have to face the future without him.
But for tonight, he had Daenerys, and somehow, that was enough.
288 AC - In Braavos:
Months had passed, and with them, hope seemed to fade, casting a heavy shadow over the young Targaryens. The days of comfort, protected by Ser Willem, seemed like distant memories, growing more dreamlike with each passing day.
His illness had begun slowly at first - a persistent cough, a weariness in his step - but it soon ravaged his body, reducing the once-proud knight to a fragile shell. His hands trembled, his breath came in gasps, and soon he could no longer rise from his bed.
When Ser Willem Darry finally succumbed to his ailments, their home fell into chaos. The servants, seeing the old knight's death as a signal that the Targaryen children were vulnerable and without defense, abandoned them. They took everything they could carry in their greedy arms - fine tapestries, gold cups, even the food from the larder. When the children finally realized what had happened, the once-cozy home had been stripped bare, reduced to a hollow, echoing shell.
It was left to Viserys and Anakin to bury Ser Willem. With no family, no other guardians, and no coins, the task of honoring the man who had been their protector fell squarely on their young shoulders. They adhered to the Braavosi custom, scattering Willem's body into the sea, standing on the docks as the wind carried his remains into the waves. The sea lapped quietly at the shore, a muted witness to their grief, and with each gust of wind, a part of their past was carried away.
Anakin stood silently, staring at the horizon. Viserys, older by several years, tried to hold his composure, but his hands clenched into fists at his sides, betraying the storm within. Daenerys cried for days after that, her small frame wracked with sobs as she mourned Ser Willem and the security he had provided.
Their home with the red door now was little more than a cruel reminder of what had been lost. It was no longer theirs. When they were cast out, it was as if the world had abandoned them.
Viserys, who had once worn the title of prince with haughty pride, now begged on the streets of Braavos. Each day he roamed the alleys and markets, pleading for a few coins, for scraps of food, his eyes always darting back to where Daenerys and Anakin waited, huddled together. He felt the weight of his duty, of their legacy, on his shoulders, and it bore down on him with a crushing intensity.
Anakin watched his uncle with a mixture of admiration and sorrow. Though Viserys spoke often of their destiny, of the Iron Throne that was rightfully theirs, he began to see the cracks in his words, the bitterness that had seeped into his uncle since Ser Willem's death. Viserys' temper grew short, his voice harsh, especially when Daenerys was involved.
Anakin hated it when Viserys yelled at his aunt, hurling insults or causing her pain. It eventually came to the point where he took it upon himself to look after Daenerys most days. This responsibility transformed Anakin, compelling him to mature and recognize the importance of keeping their family together. He dedicated himself to being a protector for Daenerys.
Whenever Viserys encountered Anakin, his bravado crumbled, and he found himself unable to confront his nephew. The resemblance to his brother Rhaegar made him hesitate, extinguishing any thoughts of harming someone who, for all intents and purposes, was the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Someone who his father saw fit to save from the sack of King's Landing.
Anakin knew his uncle was trying - trying to keep them alive, trying to keep the Targaryen name from being forgotten - but the streets of Braavos had a way of eroding Viserys's dreams.
Their new refuge was located in the Drowned Town, a haunting place where sunken buildings jutted out from murky waters like the bones of a dead city. The tops of towers and domes were all that remained above the surface, their crumbling facades casting eerie shadows over the lagoon. Beneath these skeletal remains, they found shelter in the wharves that lined the town, where the waters lapped quietly against the stone, and the creaking of wooden planks filled the air with a ghostly rhythm.
It was here, amidst the half-submerged ruins, that Anakin saw Viserys in a different light. There, Viserys stood guard over them as they slept, his figure silhouetted against the fading light. He looked every bit the prince he claimed to be, his posture proud, his sharp eyes scanning their surroundings. Anakin saw more here - saw the way his uncle's lips twisted into a permanent sneer, how his hands trembled when no one was looking. He was afraid, teetering on the brink of madness.
Anakin, in a way, could empathize with him. Viserys had lost his entire family - his mother, father, brother, and unlike he and Daenerys, Viserys remembered them all. For the first time in their lives, they were coming to understand just how profoundly alone they truly were.
Anakin, though still young, felt the weight of their legacy, too. He watched as his uncle's frustrations grew, his temper flaring more often, and wondered what the path laid out for them was. If they would ever go home.
There was something stirring within Anakin, a sense of awareness that he could not fully grasp but felt growing with each passing day. He was a Targaryen, like Viserys, like Daenerys, but he was bereft of purpose. His dreams were filled with visions he did not understand - of fire, of darkness that coursed through his veins like the blood of dragons.
As the days in Braavos stretched on, they grew more attuned to their bleak surroundings. The sunken streets, with their ghostly buildings looming half-submerged, seemed to whisper forgotten secrets, and Anakin found himself drawn to them.
Often, while Viserys was out, he would wander the wharves with Daenerys, his eyes tracing the lines of the broken towers as if seeking answers to questions he didn't yet know how to ask. But for all his wanderings, it was always Viserys who left and returned each night, standing watch over them.
And though Anakin admired his uncle's commitment and loyalty, he could not ignore the changes in him. And in himself.
291 AC - In Braavos:
The air around Ragman's Harbor was thick with noise and the pungent scent of brine. Unlike the pristine elegance of the Purple Harbor, which welcomed only the wealthiest of Braavosi merchants, Ragman's Harbor embraced chaos. It was a realm of grime and industry, where ships from far-off lands unloaded their cargo alongside the clamor of laborers, the din of foreign tongues, and the ceaseless motion of Braavos itself.
Here, diversity reigned: porters hauled crates onto weathered docks, mummers performed bawdy skits for coppers, ropemakers and sailmenders tended to their crafts, and taverners beckoned the weary into the smoky recesses of inns with questionable reputations. The beggars and whores blended into the streets, the pulse of the harbor a living, breathing entity all its own.
It was here, in Braavos, that Anakin learned to lose himself.
It had been two long years since Ser Willem Darry's death had thrust him, Viserys, and Daenerys into the squalor of Braavos, eroding the last remnants of their once comfortable life.
But for Anakin, this bustling city offered a kind of strange comfort. Where Ser Willem had once kept him cloistered in quiet rooms, he now found a different education among the harbors and shipyards of Braavos.
The shipyards, in particular, fascinated him - the sight of the Arsenal's famous purple war galleys rising with meticulous care from planks and nails, their construction a testament to the city's unmatched naval power. Anakin often slipped away from Viserys's eye, drawn to the shipbuilders and their craftsmanship, absorbing the rhythms of the workers, the artful way they created floating fortresses from wood and iron.
Viserys, in his bitterness and pride, never understood his nephew's fascination for such things. He began to take a more relaxed approach to Anakin compared to his treatment of Daenerys, letting his nephew roam the city independently, not that he could ever stop him. While he frequently criticized Daenerys for her slouched posture and petite figure, he showed a level of trust in Anakin that contrasted sharply.
Today, as they wandered through Ragman's Harbor, Viserys' usual sharpness was evident. "Watch Daenerys," he ordered, before disappearing into a dimly lit tavern that reeked of sweat, smoke, and cheap wine.
"Where are you going?" Anakin asked.
"Clearly somewhere you two can't go, now wait here," he said before striding through the tavern doors.
Anakin, irritated by his uncle's condescending tone, shifted his weight. He had long grown weary of being told what to do by Viserys. Despite his youth, he was sharp, his mind attuned to the undercurrents of this sprawling city.
His adventurous spirit gnawed at him as he glanced at Daenerys, who clutched his hand tightly. "Come on," he said, his voice a mixture of determination and mischief.
Leading her away from the main street into an alley, he found a pile of crates stacked against the tavern wall. Climbing up, Anakin peered in through one of the windows, his violet eyes widening as the scene unfolded inside.
The room was dimly lit by flickering candles, the air heavy with smoke. Women draped in loose, revealing silks moved languidly between patrons, their laughter sultry and suggestive. The clatter of wooden cups mingled with rough voices speaking in a slurry of languages. Anakin was transfixed, his young eyes glued to the sight before him.
Daenerys tugged at his sleeve, her innocent voice breaking the spell. "What is it?"
"N-Nothing. Go away," he snapped, hastily shooing her from the window, his face flushed with embarrassment. He tried to shield her from the world unfolding within the seedy reality of Ragman's Harbor.
As Anakin was about to turn back to look inside, he noticed a sudden wave of panic was sweeping through the streets. The distant roar of fear turned into shouts, and then screams.
People were running - fleeing in terror from the docks.
"Pirates!" someone yelled, before the bells in the docks began to sound off. The chaos spread like wildfire, the people surging in every direction.
He pulled Daenerys back into the alley from the street, his mind whirling.
Peeking back out from the alley, he saw the invaders - a brutal force descending upon the harbor with terrifying speed. They moved with savage efficiency, cutting down those too slow or too old to flee and binding the younger, able-bodied ones in chains. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. They weren't just killing - they were kidnapping.
"Climb inside. Find Viserys," Anakin commanded, his voice urgent as he lifted Daenerys toward the tavern window. In that moment, he was indifferent to what she discovered within; his only concern was for her safety. Her eyes were wide with terror, but she obeyed, scrambling inside the smoky room in search of her brother.
Anakin remained behind, trying to keep watch. Once he saw Daenerys was inside he turned to enter himself, but before he could react, a sharp ringing filled his ears. The world lurched violently as he stumbled, his head struck hard from behind.
Pain exploded in his skull, and the alley spun around him. He collapsed to the ground, his limbs uncooperative as darkness clawed at the edges of his vision. Through the fog of his fading consciousness, Anakin felt rough hands grab him, felt the cold bite of iron as shackles were fastened around his wrists.
He was being dragged through the bright chaos of the docks - his body a limp weight as the sounds of battle and death echoed all around him. The scene was like a fever-dream: flashing blades, crimson erupting from victims onto the blood-soaked planks.
The last thing he saw before the world went black was the dark shape of a ship looming ahead, its deck already slick with blood, the clang of chains punctuating the cries of the captured. In his final moments of consciousness, his thoughts drifted to Daenerys. He prayed she had found Viserys, and that he would be smart enough to keep her safe.
In Volantis:
Anakin Targaryen felt a foreign yet familiar pain. To say he missed Braavos would be an understatement - an understatement that couldn't begin to capture the depth of his dispiritedness.
He had once dreamed of maritime adventures, romantic tales of distant lands and heroes braving the sea. But now, those dreams felt like cruel jokes, twisted by the grim reality of his situation.
The weeks spent at sea were nothing short of hellish, each moment a torment that gnawed at his spirit. Chained in the dark holds of a pirate ship, surrounded by the stench of waste and decay, he was enveloped by sickness and nausea. The unrelenting rhythm of the waves churned his stomach.
When the ship finally anchored and he was herded off onto the sandy beach, Anakin stumbled forward, relief flooding through him as his feet met solid ground. He despised sand - coarse, rough, it seemed to get everywhere - but for now, as he collapsed onto the beach, the gritty sensation beneath his palms was welcomed.
The moment, however, was fleeting. His captors, a band of pirates led by a grim-faced man named Malko, prodded him and the other Braavosi captives onward, pulling them away from the brief comfort of the shore and into a world of dread.
As they trudged through the crowded markets, the vibrancy of the scene around him struck Anakin with a jarring realization. He saw countless individuals, men, women, and children, all shackled and forlorn, their eyes hollow and resigned. Each soul was a testament to suffering, being auctioned off like mere objects, their humanity stripped away by the callousness of their captors.
The air buzzed with the sounds of commerce mingled with the cries of the downtrodden, and Anakin felt a chill of dread wash over him. He knew slavery was an entrenched reality in Essos, a practice woven into the very fabric of society, and in Braavos, where such practices were outlawed, he felt himself far from its influence. But now, he found himself ensnared in its grasp.
When the collar around his neck was unfastened, Anakin was shoved onto the auction stage. The atmosphere shifted, and the crowd's murmurs intensified.
Malko, the pirate auctioneer, boomed his voice with enthusiasm. "A rare find for any collector, my friends. Not your usual street tough old drunken pirate. This one's a Valyrian from the lands of Old Valyria. From an ancient house of Dragon Riders. Bidding begins at 14 gold honors."
Anakin blinked, surprise flooding him. How could this seemingly simple-minded pirate deduce so much about him just from his appearance? He felt the weight of his lineage, the distinctiveness of his features - his violet eyes and platinum white hair - making him stand out.
Hands began to shoot up among the crowd, the bidding escalating with rapid fervor. "Fourteen! Do I have Fifthteen?" Malko called, and another hand shot up. "Sixteen! Sixteen gold honors! Do I have Seventeen?"
Anakin's focus drifted among the crowd, drawn in by the faces that watched him with interest. But it was a man at the front who held his gaze - a smugness etched into his features as he raised his hand high.
"Twenty," the man declared, producing a pouch of gold that glittered in the sunlight.
The crowd fell silent as Malko's eyes lit up. "Sold!" he shouted as moans and groans rang out from the other bidders.
As the pirate holding the chains around Anakin's wrist laughed and handed him over to the buyer's personal guard, frustration bubbled within the Targaryen. In an emotional outburst, he pulled the chains, yanking the pirate off balance and unleashing a flurry of blows. The crowd erupted in cheers, reveling in the chaos, but his triumph was short-lived. A powerful figure loomed over him, the guard - larger than life - swiftly dragged Anakin off the stage, by his shackles.
Before he could lash out again, the guard restrained him, striking him hard across the mouth, stunning him. Anakin felt his lip sting as the guard tightened his grip around his neck, putting him in a chokehold and forcing him to meet his new 'owners' gaze.
"I like your spirit, boy," the man said, his voice low and commanding. "Keep that fire, and you might just make it out of this alive. But raise a hand to me, and I'll have you cut." He leaned in closer and cast a glance down at his member, sending a shiver down the young boy's spine. "My name is Pazhak zo Pahl, but you will refer to me as My Lord or Master - understood?"
Pazhak stands at an average height and has a stocky build, characterized by a round face and inviting features. His short, light-colored hair has grayed over the past few years. His eyes, bright and expressive, suggest a warm, gentle demeanor that makes him seem approachable. However, beneath that look lies a man who is anything but warm. *Andy Secombe*
Anakin's silence spoke volumes, rage flickering in his eyes as he held the man's gaze, looking over to his massive guard and various others looming around.
Pazhak smirked, seemingly pleased. "Smart choice," he said before turning back to the auction, his attention drifting away as if Anakin were already beneath his notice.
Hours stretched into an agonizing blur as Pazhak continued to bid on other slaves. From within the caged carriage Anakin's eyes wandered to the guards surrounding him, their heavy, ornate armor gleaming in the sunlight. Intricate designs adorned their bronze breastplates, each reflecting the wealth and craftsmanship of their homeland.
He felt the spirit of inquiry rise within him again as he pondered what awaited him now.
292 AC - In Meereen:
The cage that held Anakin rattled as the convoy came to a halt, and the gates creaked open to reveal the towering sight of the Great Pyramid of Meereen.
The imposing structure, towering at an impressive eight-hundred feet from its vast square base to its lofty apex where a huge bronze harpy sits atop, stood in stark contrast to the grim slave markets and was visible even from outside the city's walls. It was larger, more opulent, rising into the sky like a monument to power and wealth. Despite the sprawling city of pyramids around it, none came close to matching the sheer height and grandeur of this one.
The Great Pyramid was constructed as a tribute to the ancient Great Pyramid of Ghis. Like its predecessor, it features thirty-three levels, a number revered by the gods of Ghis. Its robust foundations are designed to support the immense weight above, with interior walls that are three times the thickness of any castle's curtain walls.
The quickest route within the pyramid is through the steep and narrow servants' stairs, cleverly concealed within the thick brick walls. The heart of the pyramid contains walls that are eight feet thick, while the outer walls measure a staggering thirty feet thick, muffling the sounds of city life and insulating against the heat, resulting in a cool, dim atmosphere inside. The pyramid's main doors are barred at sunset and only open at dawn.
Its thirty-three levels, each hold significance for the gods of Ghis. The ground level houses stables, stalls, and storerooms, with the western walls accommodating horses, mules, and donkeys, while elephants are kept in the eastern stables. The second level contains the armory, while the third level features a training hall. Guest chambers are located on the sixteenth and seventeenth levels, and visitors may also find accommodations on the thirtieth floor, just two levels below the audience hall on the thirty-second level. The master chamber is situated at the pyramid's peak, on the thirty-third floor, surrounded by lush greenery and aromatic pools, with low brick parapets enclosing the space. One level below, the grand audience chamber boasts high ceilings adorned with purple marble walls and tiles. Tall candles flicker among the marble pillars where guards stand at attention. At the sixteenth and seventeenth levels lies a suite of chambers, enclosed by massive brick walls and occupied by cupbearers and servants.
The ground floor of the pyramid exudes an air of quiet, filled with dust and shadows. Sound reverberates against the arches of multicolored brick within the stables and storerooms. Horses along with mules and donkeys are housed in the western stables, while eastern stalls contain three elephants.
The Great Pyramid's Pit, measuring forty feet deep, is capable of holding up to five-hundred men, and is used as a barracks, or rather prison, by the Great Masters. The pit also houses dungeons and torture chambers as well as an armory nearby.
As Anakin's weary gaze traveled past its stone walls, he felt a fresh wave of dread. This was his new home - or rather, the home of Pazhak zo Pahl, his new 'master,' who now ruled his fate, a fact that was already greatly angering him.
Pazhak, carried in a sedan chair above the dust and filth, barked at his slaves with growing impatience. "How long does it take to enter my own house?!" he growled, snapping at the men laboring under the weight of the chair. His voice was sharp, as if every moment spent outside his lavish palace was an insult to his station.
Entering the grand courtyard at the pyramid's base, Anakin and the other captives were herded into a line and stripped of most of their clothing. Their skin stung as they were dusted with lime to ward off pests and disease. Anakin winced as cold water splashed on him, offering a completely different sensation.
After this is done, Anakin puts on a loose, light-colored tunic crafted from a coarse, natural fabric. The tunic, in a sandy beige, is tailored for breathability in the scorching desert climate and features long sleeves, providing a modest yet practical appearance. His pants are similarly uncomplicated and serve a utilitarian purpose, made from the same sandy-hued material as the tunic. They are loose-fitting, offering him freedom of movement, which is particularly beneficial. At his waist, he sports a brown utility belt that enhances the functionality of his attire, capable of holding small tools or essentials he may need. He completes his look with well-worn ankle-high boots, perfect for navigating the rocky and sandy landscape of Meereen. *Anakin's Slave Attire in The Phantom Menace*
Pazhak addressed the line of newly acquired slaves, his voice booming with smug authority. "I am Pazhak zo Pahl," he announced, his voice thick with self-importance. "And this is Strong Belwas," he continued, pointing at the giant man next to him. "He shall be closer to you for the remainder of your miserable lives than the bitch of a mother that brought you screaming into this world." His eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction as he looked them over. "I did not pay good money for your company. I paid so that I could profit from your death. And when you die - and die you shall - your transition shall be met with…applause."
Anakin's stomach churned. The courtyard was a vision of horror: caged lions feasting on human remains, vultures picking at piles of corpses, and crucified bodies dangling lifelessly from poles. Other slaves were being trained for combat, and he winced as he watched one of them struck down by an arrow, his death met with casual indifference by everyone around.
After this speech, Anakin was lined up with the other captives for inquiries.
An overseer asked each of them how old they were, then assigned them based on their answers. The oldest men were sent to the fighting pits immediately, marked with red. The younger boys, under thirteen, were marked with yellow. They would train until they were deemed enough to fight.
When it was his turn, Anakin answered eleven. The overseer nodded, marking him yellow, and sending him to the other side of the courtyard.
Arriving, he saw other boys around his age sitting against the walls of the pyramid on a bleacher. Anakin took his place among the boys, watching as the day's brutal start unfolded before them.
In front of the group, the same massive, muscular man from before, Strong Belwas, stood sentinel next to an Overseer as they began to give an orientation of sorts to the newcomers.
"People love blood when it's not their own. But tavern brawls are boring, and wars never have good seating. Thus, the famed fighting pits of Meereen opened shortly after the city's own founding. Originally, the combats were a blood sacrifice to the gods of Ghis, the empire that founded Meereen. Some still believe they are, but the Ghiscari Empire died a long time ago, and their gods went with them. Yet, the pits remained open, filling the city's purse with gold from the ends of the Earth. In the pits, slaves fight each other to the death, for fame and glory and gold for their Masters. A lot of gold. Enough for the Masters to invest in rigorous training. You slaves will be taught to fight like Dothraki screamers, Bearded Priests of Norvos, Ironborn reavers, Westerosi knights, Qohorik hunters, and Lysene pirates - whatever excites the crowd. After all, everyone wants to know who is the best, and of course, who isn't, for the crowds don't come only to see men fight well. I've seen the Masters release tigers, lions, and other exotic beasts into the arena to chase less-costly slaves, barely-trained, if at all. A whore once told me of an amusement in one of the less-prestigious pits; one boy was rolled in honey, one in blood, and one in rotting fish, and then a bear was unleashed, and the crowd wagered on which boy the bear would eat first. I never heard who won. Then again, it was obvious…" Anakin felt like he wanted to finish the sentence there with, 'the masters,' but continued to listen instead.
"For a good fighter, life is luxurious. Thousands of people chant his name when he stepped into the pits. He would eat the choicest meats, drink the finest wines, and sleep on exotic furs, often not alone. Women would fling themselves at him or sneak into his chambers to wait for him after a fight. Foreign princesses, priestesses, even the wives and wayward daughters of Masters. And he never had to fear punishment, for a great fighter could be worth three-hundred-thousand honors. Another wife was always cheaper. And when this renowned fighter finally falls - for all fighters will, in time - his name will be inscribed into the Gates of Fate, among the other valiant dead. I remember once trying to count all the names, but the gates opened before I finished, and another fight began."
When the Overseer finished telling his tale of the fighting pits of Meereen, he called a young man to stand before Belwas in the sparring grounds. They began and Belwas repeatedly landed blows on the young man with a wooden practice sword, knocking him out completely.
Belwas is an imposing figure, distinguished by his brown skin and a noticeable gap in his teeth. His shiny bald head and the smooth cheeks of a eunuch complement his broad chest and considerable belly. His attire consists of loose-fitting trousers, a yellow silk belly-band, and a snug leather vest adorned with iron studs, leaving much of his upper body exposed, revealing old, pale scars across his arms, chest, and belly. He usually wields a curved arakh and carries a small, pie plate-sized shield, which he grips in his hand instead of fastening it to his arm like a traditional knight. He has a loud and exuberant personality, often displaying a childlike glee and playfully slapping his belly.
One by one, the other boys were called up to face Belwas, and one by one, they were beaten down, each failing to land a significant blow on the hulking child-like man.
Eventually, Anakin was called forth, and a knot of anxiousness tightened in his chest. He stepped forward reluctantly, gripping the wooden sword as memories of his days with Ser Willem flashed through his mind. Back then, swordplay had been a game, a lesson in chivalry.
Now, it felt real, too real.
The signal to begin was given, but he hesitated. His eyes traced the man's massive frame, and doubt clouded his thoughts. His hesitation cost him. Belwas' sword struck him across the face, sending him sprawling to the ground. Before he could recover, another blow landed on his stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs. He collapsed again, gasping, pain radiating through his body. A third strike landed on his back, pinning him to the ground. The wood of the practice sword felt like iron.
He braced himself for another blow, but it never came. "Stop! That's enough for now," the Overseer shouted. "Next!"
Anakin staggered back to the benches, every muscle in his body aching. He collapsed into his seat, his head spinning. 'Was that supposed to be training? I just got my arse handed to me,' he thought bitterly.
The day dragged on in the same brutal fashion.
By the time they were allowed to retire to the slave quarters, Anakin was too exhausted to feel anything but numb. He found a straw bed and sat down heavily, nursing his bruises with strips of cloth he could scavenge. His face throbbed, and his body ached with every movement. He chuckled slightly at how new pain like this felt for him.
As the other boys settled into their cells, one of them - a boy slightly older than Anakin, practically a young man - appeared at the doorway, his eyes scanning the room before landing on him.
"Tough day, Valyrian?" he asked, kneeling casually against the frame.
Anakin shot him a scornful look but said nothing, continuing to press on his bruises. The pain was sharp and deep, radiating from the places where Belwas had struck him.
"Stop poking at them," the young man said, his voice casual but friendly. "They need something cold."
Anakin scoffed, though there was a flicker of humor in his voice. "Speaking from experience, are we?"
"Aye," the man said with a wry grin. "Belwas has a knack for breaking in the newcomers."
Anakin noted the accent in the man's Valyrian - it was familiar, reminiscent of a Westerosi, much like Ser Willem's. "What's your name?" Anakin asked.
"Camarron," he replied. "Though now, I suppose that doesn't matter anymore."
Anakin raised an eyebrow at that notion. "You're from Westeros?"
"No," Camarron corrected. "I'm from Lys. But my mother used to say my father was from some noble house in Westeros. Never met him, though. Highborns can be real scum when it comes to pillow house women… But I'm sure you knew that."
Camarron is dressed in tattered clothing, yet his hair, neatly parted and light blonde, is styled to perfection. His skin is fair, and his striking, deep blue eyes are a prominent and distinguishing characteristic of his face. His jawline and cheekbones are well-defined, giving his face a strong, angular shape. He possesses a lean, athletic physique, standing at a height of 6 feet tall. *Sebastian Stan*
Anakin smirked faintly, understanding more than he let on. "I'm Anakin," he said, sidestepping the subtle suggestion that he knew how highborn lived.
Camarron raised an eyebrow. "Anakin, huh? Well, may your gods favor you, Anakin," he said in the Common Tongue before disappearing into the shadows, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
As the sounds of the slave quarters quieted and the night deepened, Anakin lay back on his straw bed, staring up at the ceiling.
His new life pressed down on him, but he forced himself to hold on to one thing: change. He had to follow Ser Willem's advice and be strong; otherwise, death would be lurking just around the corner.
294 AC - In Meereen:
In the years since arriving in Meereen, Anakin had grown accustomed to the omnipresence of death. It loomed over the slave pens and training yards like a dark cloud, an ever-present specter that haunted him.
He had not yet killed anyone himself, but it was only a matter of time. The thought gnawed at him, keeping him awake some nights, his mind racing with dread.
The constant sight of men dying, whether in the fighting pits or beneath the lash of the Overseers, left a bitter taste in his mouth. It had instilled in him not just a fear of death, but of the ease with which life could be snuffed out, in this sun-scorched city that reeked of blood and lime.
With few distractions to ease the weight of his existence, Anakin threw himself into training. His movements became an extension of his being - fluid, precise, and unrelenting. Camarron, now his friend and fellow captive, often remarked on his skill, dubbing him 'quite the natural swordsman.'
But Anakin knew there was more to it than natural talent. His training had become an outlet for the storm of anger and fear raging within him. His speed was uncanny, his transitions between strikes and guards seamless, almost as if he were blending two worlds - the elegant, measured one of a fencer, and the brutal, raw force of a pit fighter.
His style, however, lacked the honor of a knight's discipline. Instead, it was fueled by rage, a reflection of the anger that simmered beneath the surface. He wielded his sword not just as a weapon, but as an outlet for the frustration that had festered within him since his arrival.
While the instructors initially criticized him for the raw emotion that drove his strikes, they soon learned not to underestimate him. By his fourteenth name-day, he had outpaced all the others, his prowess undeniable.
Yet lately, Anakin had begun to feel something shift within him.
Strong Belwas had returned to the training yard after almost a year away. The sight of him stirred a rage in Anakin that had lain dormant, one even he didn't know he had. He remembered their first encounter - the beatings - and it angered him.
Now, as he watched the seasoned gladiator strut around the yard standing guard over Pazhak, who is boasting of the honor of fighting in the pits for his house, Anakin felt the desire for revenge rise within him.
Pazhak's words about the glory of killing, the cheers of the crowd, sounded hollow to Anakin. He feared death too much to be swayed by such propaganda.
"Some of you are thinking you won't fight. Some that you can't," he declared, addressing the slaves gathered before him. He held up a steel sword, driving it into the earth with a flourish. "Thrust this into another man's flesh, and they will applaud and love you for it. You may even love 'them' for it," he sneered, his voice thick with arrogance. "Ultimately, we are all dead men. Sadly, you cannot choose how. But you can choose how you meet that end - so that you are remembered…as men."
Anakin remained silent, watching as Pazhak and Belwas left the yard, followed by their retinue.
That night, as the other slaves crowded around their straw beds, entering their pens, murmuring about their fears and hopes for the fighting pits, Anakin lay awake, lost in thought. A young man, sitting nearby, called out to him.
"You. Valyrian. Why don't you kill? We all have to kill," he challenged.
Anakin's reputation had grown in his short time here - he was known for his skill, for the way he could defeat anyone in the training yard. But he had not yet taken a life, and that had earned him suspicion. Even Camarron had taken several lives by this point, both in and outside the pits.
Anakin regarded the young man coolly from the shadows, the flickering torchlight casting a harsh glow across his bruised face. "I don't kill because it would be all too…easy," he replied, his voice low and calm.
The young man's expression twisted in anger. "You think you're better than us? What happens in the pits? You'll have to kill me. And him. And him. And him," he spat, gesturing to the others around them. "You think you can do that?"
Anakin didn't answer. The man scoffed, striding out of the room, his bravado masking the fear that clung to them all like a second skin. Anakin had seen that truth in his eyes. Beneath the swagger, they were all terrified. For the first time in a long while, even he felt a flicker of fear stir within him as well.
Death was coming, inevitable.
That night, sleep eluded him. And when it finally came, it brought with it a vivid nightmare. In his dream, flames engulfed him once again, burning him alive.
When he awoke, he found himself in a strange, otherworldly place. The air was thick with a dreamlike quality, the sky painted in hues of twilight - purple, orange, and blue. Everything around him felt surreal, from the glowing mushroom-like trees that bent with the wind to the ethereal quiet that blanketed the landscape.
Anakin slapped his face, hoping to rouse himself, when suddenly a female voice called his name. "Anakin."
Instantly alert, he scanned his surroundings. "Who's there?" he demanded.
The voice called his name again, drawing his gaze upward to a descending orb of radiant light. As it approached, its brightness forced him to shield his eyes. From the light, a spiritual priestess-like figure emerged, exuding an ethereal grace, adorned in long, flowing dark robes that seemed to meld into the surroundings, enhancing its spectral aura. The figure's face, or rather mask, with glowing, hollowed eyes that sent a chill down his spine.
"Fuck. Am…am I d-dead?" Anakin asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"You are late. We have been waiting for you, Anakin," the figure replied.
"W-Where am I? How do you know my name?" he demanded, his confusion mounting.
"We watch and study all who are strong with the Force in the universe. Now, come, if we are to begin," the spirit, exuding an otherworldly grace, beckoned him to follow.
Despite his fear, he found himself compelled to obey. As they moved across the pale, cracked earth, covered in a thin mist that clung to the ground, Anakin couldn't help but be captivated by the ethereal figure ahead of him, watching in awe as the mushroom trees and other plant life swayed in its wake, as if parting like the ocean.
Soon, they reached a colossal tree with a hidden passage that opened, leading into a chamber. Hesitant, he steps inside, taking note of the dome-shaped room that appears entirely vacant, bar for the tiny holes that allow light to filter in, rendering the rest of the space shrouded in darkness.
"Cousins, I have a guest," the one that led him here announces, and the room plunges into complete blackness.
Suddenly, intricate orange glowing lines emerge, illuminating the space as floating orbs of light, resembling the first one, begin to swirl around him.
"You should not have brought him before us!" a voice echoes from an orb that morphs into a figure identical to the first. The voice sounded exactly the same, only with a hint of anger in its tone.
"Oh, nonsense. He is full of the Force. Can you not feel it?" another one materializes in a similar manner.
"Why is he here? Why are you here?" asks a third spirit, with a hint of sadness, leaning closely towards Anakin's face.
He tenses, fighting to stay composed as five identical priestess-like figures surround him. "I-I…I'm…I," Anakin stammers nervously. Observing their faces, he realizes each mask expresses a different emotion: Serenity, Joy, Anger, Confusion, and Sadness.
"Oh, it's impossible. He will fail with the great gift. He will disappoint us. He will disappoint himself," the sad-faced one laments.
"Oh, no. No, I do not see that." Joy interjects, floating past him.
"His destiny is already set. It is not for us to decide," Serenity asserts.
"But why him?" Sadness queries, shifting its gaze to Serenity.
"He is the one," she replies in a matter of fact tone.
"W-Wait… What is this place? Why am I here?" Anakin finally manages to ask, gathering his bearings.
"He has no idea what he seeks, the responsibility he will have over the Force!" exclaims Anger.
"The Force?" he repeats, baffled.
"All that surrounds us is the foundation of life, the birthplace of what connects the Living Force and the Cosmic Force. When a living thing dies, all is removed. Life passes from the Living Force into the Cosmic Force and becomes one with it. One powers the other. One is renewed by the other," Serenity explained.
"I see… Riddles," Anakin sighed.
"Do I have a blessing that the training can begin?" Serenity inquires as the other priestesses nod in agreement.
Just then, while Anakin rubs his temple, bowing his head in confusion, the Five Priestesses cluster around him, floating in circles. Their speed accelerates, and all he can see are their ever-changing faces as they spin around him. Uncertain about what's transpiring, he remains mesmerized by their expressive masks shifting before him.
"It is so. We are one, and one is all. Do you come to us with only good intention and light in your heart?" the Force Priestess asks.
"I do… Yes," Anakin answers almost in a trance, unsure of what he is saying.
"Then the blessing I give, and the training will begin." announces Serenity as a blinding light erupts from the faces of the Priestesses and the air around him begins to swirl chaotically.
Anakin covers his eyes, and the last words he hears echoing in the whirlwind are, "Disappoint us not, 'Chosen One'."
When the light vanished and Anakin reopened his eyes, he found himself deep within the shadowy confines of a cave. He stepped carefully, the damp air clinging to his skin like a shroud. The cave was almost jungle-like, its heavy atmosphere slowing his movements while quickening his pulse. The scent of wet earth enveloped him, mixed with an acrid, metallic odor reminiscent of charred metal or the aftermath of a fire. It stirred memories of death that unsettled him, the oppressive aroma amplifying his dread.
He tried to push the feeling away, but it clung to him, stubborn and unyielding. This wasn't merely an anxiety born from the unknown; it was a raw, primal fear that tightened his stomach, leaving his mouth dry despite the humidity. An unnatural stillness surrounded him, as if something lurked just beyond his sight, waiting.
Then, from the oppressive silence, he heard it: a distinct, labored breathing that sounded almost mechanical. The noise reverberated in the air, low and threatening. Anakin's heart raced. From the shadows emerged a hulking figure, cloaked entirely in black, like death itself. The sound of its breath echoed in his ears, drowning out his own, while a dark energy pulsed around them both.
Anakin's hands shook as he picked up a nearby sword and tightened his grip on its hilt, the cold metal grounding him amidst the rising tide of fear. Sweat slicked his palms, making it difficult to maintain his hold. The weight of his blade felt amplified, as though it recognized the gravity of the confrontation ahead. Every muscle in his body tensed, his instincts screaming that something was very wrong, yet he found himself unable to look away. His skin prickled as if something unseen reached for him, invasive and suffocating.
As the masked figure advanced, it ignited a blade so brilliant it nearly blinded Anakin once more - it was a vibrant red, unlike anything he wielded, like fire itself. The dim glow flickered across the figure's obsidian armor and, for a fleeting moment, Anakin glimpsed his reflection in the black visor. It was like staring into the abyss, his own fear staring back from the faceless mask.
Then, in an instant, he managed to react, evading a brutal swing from the assailant. The hum of energy reverberated through the air as it made impact against nearby rocks. The world narrowed to that moment, time stretched, and amid that surreal standoff, he felt a chill, something dark shifting within him.
He swung and struck the masked figure in the head with his blade, decapitating it and sending its helmet rolling away to reveal his own face beneath the mask.
The realization shattered his focus; the sight of his own pale, lifeless eyes staring back at him through the broken mask destroyed every layer of control he thought he had. The metallic taste of dread surged, more intense and real, filling the cave with a palpable tension.
He felt claustrophobic, the walls seemingly closing in around him, and then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.
Anakin jerked awake, drenched in sweat.
The dream, or whatever that had been, left an imprint on his mind, an unsettling sense of foreboding. He glanced around the room, the other slaves still asleep, unaware of the turmoil raging inside him. He found it ironic that he was the one losing his grip now.
"I must be going mad," he muttered to himself, his voice lost in the shadows of the room.
Yet, the weight of his vision lingered, its cryptic messages gnawing at the edges of his sanity.