The Silver Citadel

The Silver Citadel

The year was now 124 AC, and Oldstones had finally risen from ruin. Standing atop the highest tower of his newly rebuilt fortress, Annatar gazed out across the lands surrounding his castle. The stronghold gleamed in the morning light, its stone walls reflecting a near-silver hue, while the rooftops sparkled like sapphires against the white stonework, in a proud display of House Silverwing's colors: white, silver, and blue.

The past four years had been a whirlwind of effort, resilience, and vision. Annatar had poured his heart into rebuilding Oldstones, and it had paid off beautifully. The castle now stood as one of the great landmarks in the Riverlands, a blend of ancient craftsmanship and new life, brought forth with the strength of his people and the power of his dragon, Silverwing.

He hadn't just focused on the castle itself; Annatar had helped establish a bustling village around Oldstones, populated by hardworking folk from the surrounding lands who came to seek new lives. He'd foregone building walls around the village, believing that the people should live without fear, under the protection of a dragonlord and Silverwing's watchful gaze. The village, vibrant and open, sprawled freely along the rivers and fields, with small farms and shops tucked along winding cobbled paths that all seemed to lead back to the proud, towering castle.

Annatar took a deep breath, feeling the clean morning air fill his lungs. It felt good to finally have his vision realized. Every stone, every arch and tower, each piece had been carefully laid out and was now bound with the blood and sweat of loyal workers and craftspeople he'd come to know personally. He valued their contributions, just as he valued their respect and camaraderie. The people had given him a name, "Annatar the Silver Dragon," both for his fierce loyalty to those he protected and his bond with Silverwing. It was a title that carried weight, and he bore it proudly, with both humility and resolve.

Silverwing, his mighty companion, roamed freely through the lands surrounding Oldstones. Annatar had chosen not to chain her, allowing her the freedom that a dragon deserved. She often took to the mountains that rimmed the Riverlands, resting in the high caves above the valleys. The sight of her—gleaming silver scales catching the light as she soared—had become a familiar reassurance to the people of Oldstones. In times of need, Annatar had but to lift the northern horn he had acquired from a merchant and blow its resonant note, and within moments, Silverwing would descend, her wings beating in powerful strokes as she answered his call.

The bond between dragon and dragonrider was something few could understand. Though Silverwing couldn't speak, Annatar felt he could communicate with her in ways beyond words. She sensed his moods, sometimes even his intentions, and he often felt her thoughts stirring within his own mind like the brush of fire-warmed wind. Over the years, they had built an unbreakable trust, a loyalty so fierce that Annatar knew she would face any threat at his side.

One morning, as Annatar stood near the village outskirts, he saw a group of his villagers gathered by the river, pointing and chatting excitedly. He followed their gaze to find Silverwing circling the mountainside, her silver scales flashing as she spiraled downwards, drawn by the low hum of his horn. The villagers had grown accustomed to her presence, yet every time she arrived, it brought a hush of awe, as if the land itself was holding its breath. The sight of the great dragon landing gracefully near the river's edge was a reminder of both Annatar's strength and the protection he offered.

Annatar moved toward the crowd, a warm smile spreading across his face. "She's as much a part of Oldstones as we are," he said to a young girl who was staring wide-eyed at Silverwing, a mix of awe and joy on her face.

"Yes, m'lord," she whispered, still staring at the dragon, "She's beautiful."

"She is," Annatar agreed. "And she's here to protect us all."

The girl looked up at him with wide eyes, nodding earnestly, as if she'd been told the most magical secret in the world.

When Silverwing lowered her great head toward Annatar, he laid a hand on her snout, feeling the warmth and strength of the creature who had chosen him. The villagers looked on with admiration as their lord touched the mighty dragon as if she were a friend, a trusted companion. And to him, that's exactly what she was.

Later that evening, he stood before a fire in the main hall of Oldstones, staring into the flickering flames as memories stirred of the long journey to this moment. He thought of his time under Prince Daemon, the battles, and the life lessons that had forged him. He thought of his mother, Aredhel, whose name now lived in the memories of House Silverwing, honored in the blood and stone of Oldstones. It was strange how time had passed; he had grown from a wandering soul into a lord, from a squire into a knight, and now—Annatar the Silver Dragon, protector of his people and bearer of a legacy that felt both humbling and powerful.

Before he retired for the night, Annatar stepped out to look at the stars above Oldstones, the night cool and quiet around him. Silverwing's distant roar echoed from the mountains, a reminder that he was never truly alone.

Oldstones would endure and, he promised himself, would once again be one of the grandest castles in Westeros—a symbol not just of House Silverwing but of resilience, strength, and freedom.