Capítulo 8: The Price of Power
The Price of Power
Three months had passed since Annatar had been taken in as Prince Daemon's squire, and life at Dragonstone had become more grueling than the young boy could have imagined. The training was relentless, the expectations higher than any Annatar had faced before. Daemon pushed him harder with each passing day, demanding more from him than any boy of his age should have to endure. But Annatar had come to learn that Daemon was not one to show kindness, not one to offer praise unless it was earned through blood and sweat.
Daemon's approach was not gentle. He did not believe in coddling his squire, and he certainly didn't believe in offering comfort. Every mistake Annatar made was met with a sharp rebuke, and every success was merely a prelude to the next challenge. Annatar had learned quickly that Daemon was unpredictable. One day, he would be cold and distant, leaving Annatar to wonder if he was ever truly satisfied with his progress. The next day, Daemon would push him to the brink, forcing him to fight harder, faster, and with more precision than before, as if one defeat wasn't enough.
During their practice matches, Daemon's cruelty often bordered on the edge of violence. He never held back, never softened the blows. Annatar had learned to expect bruises, cuts, and even a broken bone or two after a particularly rough training session. Yet, there was something in the way Daemon fought—something in the wild, untamed ferocity—that made Annatar respect him. He would never say it out loud, but Daemon was the kind of man who inspired both fear and awe. Annatar knew that to stand beside him, to be worthy of being his squire, he would need to become just as ruthless, just as relentless.
There were days when Annatar wanted to quit. Days when the pain was too much, when the exhaustion from endless sword drills and the weight of Daemon's disdain made him question everything. On those days, Annatar would retreat to the cliffs of Dragonstone, where the wind howled and the sea crashed violently below. He would close his eyes and remember why he was doing this. He was doing this for power. For control. For the chance to rise above his bastard status and claim a place among the Targaryens, a place where he was more than just the son of an unknown father.
Daemon would never admit it, but Annatar suspected that the prince saw something in him. Maybe it was the boy's natural talent for swordplay. Maybe it was his striking resemblance to the Targaryen bloodline. Or maybe it was something darker, something dangerous that Annatar had yet to fully understand. But whatever it was, Daemon kept him around, kept pushing him to be better, to be stronger.
But Daemon's praise was a rare thing, and when it did come, it was always laced with a harsh edge. One evening, after a particularly brutal sparring session, Daemon stood over Annatar, watching him struggle to catch his breath. Blood trickled from a cut on the boy's cheek, and his arms were trembling from exhaustion. Daemon looked down at him, his cold violet eyes betraying no emotion.
"You've got potential," Daemon said, his voice low. "But you'll never be anything more than a disappointment unless you learn to fight with more than just skill."
Annatar, panting, nodded but said nothing. He didn't have the strength to argue. Daemon's words stung, but he had heard them before. He wasn't good enough yet. Not in Daemon's eyes.
"And don't ever think," Daemon continued, his voice sharper now, "that your blood means anything. You're a bastard, Annatar. Don't forget it. You might have Targaryen blood, but it means nothing unless you prove yourself worthy. It will never be handed to you."
Those words cut deep, but Annatar swallowed the hurt and rose to his feet, bowing his head in silent acknowledgment. He had grown used to Daemon's unpredictability. There were no assurances in the world Daemon inhabited, and Annatar had come to accept that.
But things were not all bleak. As the weeks went by, there were moments—brief glimpses—when Daemon showed something else. A flicker of approval. A rare hint of respect. The prince didn't often show his softer side, but when he did, it was like the sun breaking through dark clouds.
One afternoon, after a particularly hard fight in the training yard, Daemon didn't walk away with his usual cold dismissal. Instead, he stopped in front of Annatar, his expression unreadable.
"Not bad," he said, his voice flat. "Keep training like that, and maybe you'll be more than just a shadow to me."
Annatar stared up at him, trying to read his face. "I'll do my best, my prince."
Daemon grunted. "Better than best. I don't train shadows, boy."
With that, Daemon walked off, his cloak swirling around him like a storm, leaving Annatar to absorb the compliment in his own way. For a fleeting moment, Annatar wondered if Daemon saw him as more than just a tool, more than just someone to use for his own gains. But those moments were rare, fleeting, and Annatar quickly buried them. There was no room for weakness in this world.
Daemon had not yet told Annatar anything about his father, about the whispers that had circulated about his origins. But there were times when the prince's gaze lingered on him longer than usual, and Annatar couldn't help but wonder if Daemon knew more than he let on. Maybe he suspected the truth. Maybe he was waiting for Annatar to reveal it himself.
There was one night, after a particularly brutal sparring match, when Daemon caught Annatar's gaze and held it for a moment too long. For just a second, Annatar saw something in Daemon's eyes—something that could have been pity, or understanding, or maybe even curiosity.
"Remember this, Annatar," Daemon said, his voice low and menacing. "You are nothing until you prove yourself. And you'll need more than just sword skills to survive here. You'll need cunning, ambition, and a willingness to do whatever it takes."
Annatar stood straighter, trying not to flinch under the weight of Daemon's words. "I understand, my prince."
Daemon nodded, his expression unreadable. "Good. I expect you to be ready. One day, I'll need you to be more than just my squire. I'll need you to be a force to be reckoned with."
As Annatar left the training yard that night, bruised and battered but still standing, he felt the truth of Daemon's words settle deep within him. He was nothing, nothing at all, until he proved himself worthy. But how? And at what cost?
That question lingered in his mind long into the night, as he lay in his bed, trying to reconcile the fierce desire to earn Daemon's respect with the gnawing fear that one day, Daemon might ask him to pay a price he wasn't ready to pay.
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