We Bleed Silver(GOT/ASOIAF Fanfic)

Watching Jacaerys creep into the room, Draezell shifted into a seated position on the bed, legs crossed, his gaze fixed thoughtfully on the boy's uneasy expression.

This child... Draezell brushed aside the fact that he himself was only seven years older than Jacaerys. He understood perfectly why the boy had come to visit him so late at night. Though young, Jacaerys was perceptive beyond his years. Draezell saw in him echoes of a younger Lyonel.

It was a shame. In a world where bloodlines mattered as much as, if not more than, laws, a questionable lineage meant that Jacaerys would inevitably face open challenges and veiled attacks.

But the fault wasn't the boy's; it lay squarely with his foolish, irresponsible, and lust-driven mother, Princess Rhaenyra. As a member of the royal family, heir to the Iron Throne, and key to House Velaryon's alliance, her reckless actions were inexcusable. She had not only compromised her position but also burdened her children with features that blatantly hinted at her indiscretions. It was no surprise that the prince's faction had ample reason to target her and her sons.

"Little Jace, staying up so late will stunt your growth," Draezell teased with a warm smile, beckoning Jacaerys to sit on the bed. He ruffled the boy's dark, brown-black hair. In truth, Draezell was fond of him. Jacaerys was perceptive, well-mannered, brave, resilient, and thoughtful—qualities that made him likable to anyone.

Still, Draezell couldn't help but sigh inwardly.

"My lord," Jacaerys began, addressing him in his capacity as squire, "I have a question I'd like to ask you."

This caught Draezell by surprise. In Westeros, the relationship between a knight and his squire often resembled that of a foster father and son. Of course, this depended on their closeness. Some squires were little more than servants—or worse, playthings—while others were heirs, relatives, or protégés entrusted by close friends. For great lords, their squires often came from the families of their bannermen, serving as vital links between lord and vassal.

For the latter type of squire, teaching and guiding them was the knight's sacred duty. It was clear that Jacaerys approached Draezell with such expectations in mind.

"Speak, little Jace," Draezell said gently, smoothing the fabric of the bed. "I will tell you all I know."

"In your opinion, what's more important—bloodline or ability?" Jacaerys lowered his head. Though he could accept his unique circumstances with a certain maturity, the impact they had on others still weighed heavily on his heart.

Draezell chuckled. "Valyrian bloodlines demand only one thing." He pointed toward the window, where the faint outline of Vermithor and Vermax could be seen on a distant hill. The two dragons had fashioned makeshift nests, waiting for the New Year. Lord Tarly had stocked the area near the Dragonpit with an abundance of prey—both freshly slaughtered and live offerings—for the dragons to feast upon.

"Dragons," Draezell said. "In Old Valyria, anyone who could ride a dragon—a dragonrider—whether born legitimate or the result of a fleeting whim of the Dragonlord, commanded immense respect within their family. Valyrian power was forged by Fire and Blood, not by lines of legal precedent."

Jacaerys' voice trembled slightly. "But… dragons aren't everything anymore. I know about my and Luke's… and Joff's uniqueness. If only we looked more like Father than Ser Harwin Strong… If only we had Grandmother's jet-black hair instead of this brown-black…" He trailed off, anguish evident in his tone. "So many things wouldn't have happened."

"You are blameless," Draezell said firmly, placing a reassuring hand on Jacaerys' head. "I am your knight, and it is my duty to tell you this: your mother made grave mistakes, but the fault lies solely with her—not with you. For now, at least, the law supports you."

He locked eyes with Jacaerys, his deep violet gaze seeming to blaze with an inner fire. "Until King Viserys publicly announces the princess's removal as heir, your focus should be on proving yourself to the people of the realm. Show them that your bloodline, however questioned, will not lead to mediocrity. Show them that you can bring peace, stability, bread, and ale.

"Remember this: the people may hesitate to accept a king with a stained lineage, but they will never accept a king who is incompetent or tyrannical. A wise and capable ruler can make his people forget the flaws in his bloodline. Yes, the histories may record those flaws, but centuries from now, what will be sung are your achievements and virtues. Your imperfections will be reduced to tavern tales, laughed off over drinks. And if anyone tries to exploit them, they will only earn the ridicule of those who value reason."

"Thank you, my lord," Jacaerys said softly.

"Now, off to bed," Draezell said, ruffling Jacaerys' hair with deliberate force. "We'll be spending the New Year at Horn Hill, and there's a tough battle ahead."

Jacaerys carefully left Draezell's chambers, leaving the older man to let out a long, weary sigh.

The New Year of 123 AC slipped quietly by on the warm winds of summer. In the South of the realm, there were few signs of autumn or winter—this was the Long Summer. In the Reach, wheat ripened ceaselessly, flowers bloomed in abundance, and the population flourished.

"Fertile" was the only word that could describe the Reach under the endless summer sun.

The fleets of House Vaelarys continued to arrive in waves across Westeros, bringing with them an influx of strong and able-bodied settlers to breathe new life into the newly claimed lands. Villages sprang up like mushrooms after rain in the borderlands and along the Roseroad. Workshops resumed production, churning out luxury goods, wines, and silks. Meanwhile, the Vaelarys family's enterprises in other Free Cities funneled wealth back to Westeros, the profits of trade and banking flowing steadily home.

By the time Draezell and his retinue reached Highgarden, they were greeted with yet another grand feast.

Nearly half the lords of the Reach had gathered for the occasion. Lord Loras Tyrell had decided to host the event in the lush green fields outside Highgarden, planning an open-air banquet. If not for Draezell's written plea to forego such extravagance, Loras had intended to hold a grand tourney as well.

That, Draezell thought, would have been entirely unnecessary.

Outside the encampment, Vermithor and Vermax rested lazily, while within, banners fluttered in the breeze. The triple castle sigil of House Peake, the golden tree of House Rowan, the fox and stone flower of House Florent, the yellow centaur of House Caswell, the bountiful horn of House Merryweather, and the red apple of House Fossoway all waved proudly.

Yet all these colorful banners encircled and deferred to two central standards: the golden rose of House Tyrell and the lighthouse of House Hightower.

Ser Ormund Hightower stood with Prince Daeron, raising his goblet to toast Draezell and Jacaerys, who had hastened from their dragons' resting grounds to join the gathering.

"Women cannot rule over men!"

Before Ser Ormund could speak his words of welcome, a coarse voice suddenly rang out from one of the long tables nearby.

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