The Path of the Sword

The Path of the Sword

The year was 111 AC, a decade after the Great Council, and Dragonstone's walls were alive with the clashing sounds of training and murmurs of dragon dreams. At only ten years old, Annatar had already become a name whispered among the men-at-arms of Dragonstone. With his silver hair and violet eyes, he bore the beauty and fire of Valyria, but it was his skill with a blade that truly set him apart.

Annatar had been training for two years, showing an uncanny talent with the sword. His mother, the only family he'd known, had passed away the year before. It was her cousin Daeron, Dragonstone's master-at-arms, who had taken the boy in, seeing both a duty to his blood and an opportunity to nurture potential in his young kin. Annatar trained daily with Daeron's son, Aeron, who was his age and quickly became his closest friend.

Aeron was strong and dedicated, steadily honing his skills. But Annatar was a natural, with a swiftness and precision that surprised everyone, even the grizzled men-at-arms who watched from the shadows of the training yard. While Aeron practiced with a determined focus, Annatar seemed to dance, each strike flowing into the next as if he'd been born with the sword in hand.

"You're like a shadow," Aeron panted one afternoon, wiping sweat from his brow after a particularly grueling sparring session. "The rest of us might as well be trying to catch the wind."

Annatar grinned, shrugging. "Or maybe you're just slow, Aeron."

Aeron laughed, throwing a playful punch at his friend's shoulder. "Maybe so. But if you keep this up, they'll name you master-at-arms before my father's even ready to step down."

Annatar's smirk faded, replaced by a thoughtful look. "Perhaps… but I don't want to stop there." He glanced up at the sky, where the dragons circled in the distance, and his eyes took on a faraway gleam. "I want to be better than the Kingsguard, Aeron. Better than any knight Westeros has ever known."

Aeron blinked in surprise, then let out a low whistle. "The Kingsguard? You don't dream small, do you?"

Annatar's gaze remained steady. "Why should I? They protect kings and serve the realm, but I want to be even greater than that." His violet eyes flashed with ambition. "They'll know my name not just for my sword, but for what I can become."

The men-at-arms who trained them began to notice this ambition in the young boy. Daeron, proud yet watchful, paid special attention to Annatar's progress. He saw potential, yes, but also a quiet confidence that seemed to grow with each passing day.

"You're a gifted lad," Daeron told him after a long session one afternoon, his voice tinged with both approval and caution. "But remember, talent alone won't make you great. Discipline, honor, and patience are what'll forge you into a true knight."

Annatar nodded, though his heart beat faster at Daeron's words. The world he envisioned was far greater than the walls of Dragonstone, and in that world, he would need more than just skill.

As they continued to train, the other men-at-arms began to gather around the yard, watching Annatar's every move. They could see something rare in the boy—a precision and elegance that made each strike look effortless, yet lethal. They whispered about his talent, speculating on his future. Some even suggested that his silver hair and violet eyes marked him as touched by the blood of Old Valyria, blessed by the gods.

By the time he was ten, Annatar was already sparring with boys twice his age and occasionally besting them, his movements a blur of speed and grace. Daeron's son, Aeron, was his closest companion, but even Aeron could not keep pace with Annatar's rapidly growing skill. Though he worked hard to keep up, Aeron couldn't deny his friend's natural talent, admiring it without a trace of envy. For Aeron, loyalty to his friend was stronger than any competition.

One evening, Daeron pulled Annatar aside after training. His gaze was stern but softened with pride. "You're ready for more advanced training," he said, his voice steady. "But remember, skill with a sword means nothing without the honor to wield it."

Annatar met Daeron's eyes, nodding solemnly. He understood the weight of those words, even at his young age. And in his heart, he knew that his path was only beginning, that each day of training would bring him closer to his goal.

That night, as Annatar and Aeron walked together from the yard, the stars shone brightly above them. Aeron clapped a hand on his shoulder, a grin spreading across his face. "One day, Annatar, I'll look up and say I knew you when you were just a boy with big dreams."

Annatar's smile was confident, but his gaze held a glimmer of warmth. "Then let's make those dreams a reality together, Aeron."

In the days and months that followed, Annatar's name became something of a legend within the walls of Dragonstone. To the men-at-arms, he was a prodigy, someone destined for greatness. To Aeron, he was a brother and a friend, one who inspired him to become the best version of himself. And to Daeron, he was a legacy—a boy who could surpass even the highest ideals of knighthood if he could forge himself into the man he dreamed of becoming.