We Bleed Silver(GOT/ASOIAF Fanfic)

"Lord Unwin, mind your tongue!" Ser Alan Beesbury slapped the table sharply. He was the grandson of Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, and the heir to Honeyholt.

"Such talk borders on treason. Be grateful this is not the throne room of the king," reminded the imposing Thaddeus Rowan, Lord of Goldengrove. "The princes are here now. Consider yourself fortunate they are still some distance away."

"I'm merely stating the truth," Unwin Peake retorted, glancing toward the encampment's entrance where Draezell and Jacaerys were still a short distance from the long tables. "When you lie with a woman, aren't you the one on top?"

"Shut your mouth!" Lord Rowan fought the urge to fling his goblet of wine into Unwin's face. "Seven hells, if you want to die, find a quiet place to cut your own throat, but don't drag the rest of us down with you."

Unwin merely snorted, casting another glance toward the camp's entrance. Ser Ormund Hightower and Lord Loras Tyrell had already reached Draezell and Jacaerys. Ser Ormund raised his goblet high.

"Welcome, Prince Draezell. Your triumphs in Dorne have brought joy to the entire realm. From Oldtown to Winterfell, songs of your deeds are already being sung. And to you, Prince Jacaerys, please convey my regards to Princess Rhaenyra."

Draezell nodded graciously. Jacaerys, taking a golden glass of Arbor Gold from a passing servant, offered it to Draezell.

"Lord Tyrell, thank you for your lavish hospitality. And to you, Ser Ormund, thank you for gracing us with your presence," Draezell replied, raising his goblet in acknowledgment.

Ser Ormund gestured for Prince Daeron to step forward. "Prince Draezell, allow me to introduce Prince Daeron Targaryen, the king's youngest son."

Daeron placed a hand over his chest and bowed slightly. "Uncle Draezell, thank you for the gift you sent me." The young prince's voice brimmed with excitement. "The sword you gave me is second only to my uncle's Valyrian steel blade, Vigilance. I used it to shatter the longsword of my master-at-arms in the Hightower. Receiving such a gift is an honor."

"I look forward to seeing Prince Daeron's performance in the tourney," Draezell said with a smile, clinking goblets with Ser Ormund. "Of course, I'll need to set an age limit and create a division for younger knights."

"It would be my honor, Uncle," Daeron said, his eyes lighting up with excitement.

In the encampment, where nobles feasted on delicacies and sipped strong drink, a hush fell over the crowd. One by one, they rose to their feet, offering respectful salutations to the prince and his young companion.

"It seems the rumors are true," whispered a knight of House Florent. "Prince Daeron didn't even spare a glance for Prince Jacaerys."

"Watch your tongue," his companion hissed, pinching the knight's side. "Drink your wine and keep your thoughts to yourself. Do you have a death wish?"

"Alright, alright, drink up!" The knight winced in pain and quickly yielded. Similar mutterings circulated around the long tables and tents but were swiftly drowned out by cautious voices. No one wanted to provoke the wrath of the dragonlords—though it seemed the dragonlords themselves paid little mind to such chatter.

"Prince, I didn't expect you to choose Lady Diana," Ser Ormund Hightower said, guiding Draezell toward the place of honor. "Samantha doesn't know yet, but I imagine she'll be overjoyed when she finds out."

"The Tarlys have proven themselves loyal vassals," Draezell replied with a faint smile. "Lady Diana is exceptionally talented. Thanks to her efforts, the construction costs of Summerhall and Dragon's Nest have been reduced by over ten percent, and the results exceeded all expectations. Marrying her is truly my fortune."

"Haha!" Ser Ormund laughed heartily, raising his goblet for a sip of wine. "In that case, we'll be brothers-in-law, Your Highness. If you ever need anything, House Hightower will spare no effort to assist you."

Draezell tilted his head slightly, meeting Ormund's gaze. "Ser, as it happens, I do have a request."

"Name it, and it's yours."

"The Citadel," Draezell said, raising his goblet slightly.

Ormund hesitated, puzzled. "You need a maester? That hardly counts as a request. You only need to write to the Citadel, and the Conclave will send you the finest maester at once." He leaned closer as if a sudden realization struck him. "If you wish, House Hightower could intercede to ensure they send someone on par with the Grand Maester himself."

"You misunderstand me, Ser," Draezell replied, taking a sip of wine. "Do you know of Maester Visari?"

Ormund's face showed his confusion. Though he was the heir of House Hightower, he hadn't yet taken over managing the family's dealings with the Citadel and the Faith. In truth, he didn't even know how many maesters were on the Conclave. He shook his head.

"He was once a member of the Citadel's Conclave but now serves as an advisor to my family," Draezell explained. "At my father's request, he educated a large number of students following the Citadel's methods. By their standards, they've already achieved the knowledge of maesters, or at least acolytes. However, I respect Westerosi traditions and hope these students can receive official recognition from the Citadel."

"This..." Ormund hesitated, realizing the implications. Was Draezell aiming to challenge the Citadel's monopoly on knowledge? That would never be allowed. Torn, he stammered, "I'm afraid I can't make such a decision. At most, I can try to mediate on your behalf."

"That's alright, Ser," Draezell said with a calm smile. "I'll personally fly to the Citadel and negotiate with the Conclave. I trust the maesters won't turn a blind eye to knowledge being buried. Such neglect would be cursed by the gods."

Ormund had no idea how to respond. He nodded repeatedly, aware that even though House Hightower desired closer ties with House Vaelarys, they could never relinquish the Citadel's control over knowledge. The Silver Dragon had just handed the Beacon a thorny dilemma.

Nearby, Lord Loras Tyrell swirled his wine in silence, observing Ormund take his place as the intermediary. Instead of speaking, he shifted his gaze to the two princes.

It was Jacaerys who broke the silence. "Uncle, it's been a while."

"Indeed, nephew," Prince Daeron replied, silently repeating courtesy, courtesy, courtesy in his mind. The young prince felt conflicted. As children, he and his brothers had not been on bad terms with Jacaerys and his brothers. Aegon the Elder had even once included Jacaerys and Lucerys in pranks on Aemond.

However, after the "eye for a dragon" incident, relations soured irrevocably. Queen Alicent's simmering feud with Princess Rhaenyra turned into open hostility. She began relentlessly drilling into her sons that Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey were bastards. The aftermath of the incident solidified their enmity, fostering animosity among the younger generation as well.

What had once been camaraderie among cousins became bitter rivalry, severing ties of blood and friendship.

Lord Loras gave an almost imperceptible nod and raised his goblet. "Your Highness, I've heard of your valor in crushing House Wyl family and conquering the Stone Road."

"To my nephew," Daeron said, taking a goblet of Arbor Gold from a passing servant. "I drink to your courage and... strength." He deliberately paused before adding the last word, a smile playing on his lips.

Jacaerys smiled and picked up a goblet of Arbor Gold as well. "Thank you, Uncle. The Dornish are fierce warriors. Even with Prince Draezell and Uncle Valar's dragons, we must remain vigilant. Strength is the only path to victory." He raised his goblet high, his voice ringing out, "To the brave and strong warriors of the Stone Road battlefield! May the Dornish melt like snow under dragonfire!"

"Here, here!" The nobles at the long table were momentarily stunned by Jacaerys's proclamation before Thaddeus Rowan and Ser Alan Beesbury began clapping enthusiastically. "To the warriors who slaughtered the Dornish!" Thaddeus grabbed his goblet and echoed the toast loudly.

Ser Ormund Hightower, overhearing the cheers, furrowed his brow. Draezell, however, smiled in approval and raised his goblet, joining the toast.

"To the brave warriors still fighting on the Stone Road!"

"To the warriors of the realm!" Prince Daeron quickly caught on, raising his goblet and downing it in one gulp. "To Prince Draezell, to Prince Valar, and to you, my nephews!"

"To Prince Draezell! To Prince Valar!"

The waves of toasts drowned out Lord Urwin's grumbling mutters, rendering them incomprehensible to anyone.

While the feast in Highgarden unfolded with cheer and camaraderie, events took a graver turn elsewhere.

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At the Vaelarys encampment on the Stone Road, Silverwing descended slowly onto an open space in the camp. Prince Valar dismounted with a puzzled expression, removing his helmet as he approached Edric Dondarrion and Randyll Cafferen.

"What's going on? Why did you summon me in such haste?" Valar asked, confusion evident on his face.

"You'll understand when you see this, Your Highness," Edric replied with a wry smile, gesturing for Amos Fezer to bring someone forward.

A frail old man, clad in a filthy, tattered black robe, shuffled forward, trembling. His cloudy eyes darted to the massive dragon, Silverwing, and he nearly collapsed in fright. Barely maintaining his footing, he exposed the emblem on his chest: a crowned skull.

"Your Highness," the man said in a shaky voice, "I am Caswald Manwoody. I come from Kingsgrave."

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