The Forgotten Blood

The Forgotten Blood

The trip to King's Landing stretched on, a tense journey filled with apprehension and whispered rumors among the guards. Bound in chains, Annatar watched the waves lap against the ship's hull, his mind racing. His every thought was clouded with worry—not only about his fate but also for Silverwing, who followed closely above, her massive wings cutting through the air in rhythmic strokes. She was his shadow in the sky, a silent but powerful reminder that he was never truly alone, even as the guards tightened their hold on him, wary of the dragon above.

Upon arrival at the docks of King's Landing, Annatar was led through the bustling streets, the murmurs of the crowd growing louder with each step he took toward the Red Keep. Onlookers craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the young man in chains, wondering who he was and what crime he had committed to be brought here under such guard. With Silverwing casting her shadow over the city, some whispered that he was a rogue Targaryen—a shadow of old Valyria come to bring fire and blood upon the capital.

Once he reached the towering gates of the Red Keep, the guards tightened their grip, practically dragging him through its imposing corridors. The familiar scents of stone and steel filled his senses as he was taken deeper into the heart of Targaryen power, the very seat of the Iron Throne itself. His heart pounded with each echoing step, his mind steeling itself for whatever trial awaited him.

Finally, he was brought into the vast throne room, where King Viserys I Targaryen sat upon the Iron Throne, surrounded by members of the royal family, the small council, and a host of lords and courtiers who had gathered to witness his judgment. The throne itself, with its jagged edges and twisted blades, loomed over the room like a living beast, a reminder of the power and the danger that lay within these walls.

Annatar was forced to his knees, his gaze locked on the king as the hall fell silent.

Viserys gazed down at him, his expression a mixture of curiosity and grim duty. "Annatar," he began, his voice firm yet inquisitive. "You have come to King's Landing in chains, with a dragon circling above as if to guard you. By what right do you claim the bond with Silverwing, a dragon who once bore only Targaryen riders?"

Annatar raised his chin, meeting the king's gaze directly. "I claim no right, Your Grace. I did not seek Silverwing; she found me, and she chose me."

A murmur rippled through the court, voices whispering as lords and ladies cast dubious glances at one another. Lord Lyonel Strong, the Hand of the King, took a step forward, his voice ringing out through the hall with authority.

"Dragons belong to House Targaryen and House Targaryen alone," Lyonel declared. "And only those of Targaryen blood have the right to ride them. If this boy claims no birthright, he risks upsetting the very order of our realm."

Nearby, Princess Rhaenys Velaryon studied Annatar with a cold gaze, her voice cutting through the tension. "He is a disruption—a dangerous anomaly. One that cannot be allowed to go unchecked."

Annatar's eyes shifted to the assembled lords and ladies, reading the fear and suspicion etched into their faces. His heart pounded with a growing sense of dread as he realized just how precarious his position had become.

"Your Grace," Lyonel continued, addressing Viserys. "I propose we put his fate to a vote. Shall he be granted his freedom, or shall he face execution for his presumptuous claim?"

A ripple of agreement spread through the council, and Viserys, with a weary nod, granted his consent. The lords raised their hands, almost in unison, favoring execution. Annatar felt his stomach twist as he watched, a cold dread settling over him. Lord Corlys Velaryon, standing resolute among the council, did not raise his hand, nor did Laenor Velaryon, who offered him a look of understanding. Even Lord Lyonel Strong, who had called the vote, withheld his own hand, yet the overwhelming majority signaled Annatar's doom.

With his life hanging by a thread, Annatar summoned every ounce of courage within him, his voice ringing out defiantly across the hall.

"You may kill me," he said, his voice steady but resolute. "But if you do, Silverwing will feel it. She will rain fire upon this castle, and none of you will be spared."

A hush fell over the court, his words settling uneasily over the crowd. Even the most hardened lords exchanged nervous glances, the threat of dragonfire a reminder of the power he wielded, if only through the bond he shared with Silverwing.

King Viserys, who had been observing Annatar with an unreadable expression, now rose from the Iron Throne, descending the steps with measured steps. He studied Annatar closely, his gaze intense, as though searching for something hidden beneath the young man's defiant exterior.

"Tell me," Viserys said, his voice soft but penetrating. "What is your mother's name?"

Annatar hesitated, glancing around at the assembled lords before answering. "Her name was Aredhel, Your Grace."

The court fell silent, and a strange look crossed Viserys's face—a flicker of recognition, as though a distant memory had been stirred from the depths of his mind. A murmur spread through the crowd, confusion and intrigue mingling in equal measure.

"Aredhel…" Viserys repeated, as if tasting the name on his lips. "I remember now. My father, Baelon, once spoke of a child born out of wedlock—a daughter, Aredhel, my half-sister. She was hidden from the court, a secret my father entrusted to me before his passing. He asked me to find her, to see that she was cared for, but… she vanished before I could fulfill his request."

A shocked gasp rippled through the room as the truth of Annatar's lineage began to sink in. Viserys's gaze softened, a mixture of regret and sorrow etched upon his face as he looked at the young man before him.

"My father's blood runs through your veins," Viserys said, his tone softened. "Bastard-born or not, you carry the legacy of House Targaryen, and it was my duty to protect you. I failed in that duty once; I will not fail again."

Princess Rhaenys's voice cut through the silence, her tone steely. "Blood alone does not grant him the right to bond with a dragon," she argued. "He is still an outsider—a reminder of the instability that plagues our house."

Viserys turned to her, his voice firm. "He is my nephew, Rhaenys, and that blood ties him to our house as surely as any other. Silverwing chose him, and that bond is not something we can easily sever."

The assembled lords shifted uneasily, but none dared to oppose the king's word. With a nod, Viserys motioned to the guards, who stepped forward and unlocked Annatar's chains, freeing him from his bonds. He stood, his heart pounding as he absorbed the weight of his newfound heritage, the knowledge that he was, indeed, a Targaryen—however distant or complicated that lineage might be.

Lord Corlys approached him, his expression unreadable. "This is only the beginning, Annatar," he warned in a low voice. "You have been spared, but you walk a path fraught with danger. The court will watch you with suspicion, and you will need allies if you are to survive."

Annatar nodded, understanding the gravity of Corlys's words. His release was not an end to his struggles, but the beginning of a new and even more perilous chapter. He was bound to the Targaryens, yet he stood apart from them, his place in this world as uncertain as the day he first rode Silverwing.

As the court dispersed, Annatar felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Lord Lyonel Strong, who offered him a small nod.

"You may be free," Lyonel said, his voice low, "but do not mistake this for acceptance. The blood of the dragon may protect you, but it will also demand much of you."

Annatar watched as the lords and ladies filed out, their whispers filling the hall like the sound of distant thunder. With Silverwing awaiting him outside, her loyalty a silent comfort, he stepped forward, knowing that each choice he made from this day would shape his destiny—and the destiny of those around him.