We Bleed Silver(GOT/ASOIAF Fanfic)

"The war is over, Lord Stark," Lady Sabitha observed, glancing at the fearsome northern men. Most were rugged, young warriors clad in tattered fur armor. Lady Sabitha understood the purpose of such a gathered host. Winter was approaching — its chill winds reaching even the Twins. The year's harvest, already diminished by war and the encroaching cold, had left the Riverlands struggling. In the North, the situation was worse.

Knowing that the northern army had departed Barrowton, Alyssane and Benjicot quickly joined Rodrik in moving north to prepare for Lord Stark's arrival. With nearly seven thousand troops at her side, Lady Sabitha managed to maintain composure before the intimidating northerners.

"The traitors' trial remains unfinished. I have not received word of their surrender in the Westerlands, nor have I seen their heads upon the spikes of King's Landing," Cregan Stark stated calmly.

Benjicot opened his mouth to speak but froze under Cregan's cold stare, realizing he was still but a boy.

"The lords of the Westerlands have already submitted," Alyssane said, meeting Cregan Stark's gaze. "Prince Draezell will soon march north with his forces. He and Prince Jacaerys will preside over the trials at Harrenhal. If you seek justice, go there and await Prince Draezell."

Cregan Stark studied Alyssane for a moment, then said evenly, "Very well, I will go to Harrenhal. Let us hope the outcome of this trial satisfies the realm."

As the Lord of Winterfell departed, the Riverlands' leaders collectively exhaled in relief.

"Sister, he's terrifying," Benjicot murmured.

Alyssane watched Cregan Stark's retreating figure and muttered, "He is a leader. I feel the harshness of winter in him. Ben, do you understand what thirty thousand northern troops mean?"

Benjicot shook his head, prompting Rodrik Dustin to explain. "It means thirty thousand men who will never return to the North. The grain they leave behind will feed the next generation. From the moment they crossed the Neck, we were already dead men walking."

---

Oldtown, The Citadel, Jaehaerys' Statue Square

Archmaester Rosan of Mysticism, Archmaester Rhaeson of History, Archmaester Korlon of Medicine, and Archmaester Munkun stood nervously before Draezell's desk. Before the young man lay an imposing tome, the contents of which had left all of them unsettled. Several similarly massive books rested on the desk as well.

At last, Draezell closed the book gently, his expression unreadable. He fixed his gaze on the scholars. "Well then, gentlemen. While little Jace is absent, why don't you explain this to me?" He picked up a book titled "The Reproduction and Rearing of Dragons: Theories on Valyrian Dragon-Taming Techniques" and waved it in front of them before throwing it to the ground. "What exactly is the Citadel researching this for?"

Archmaester Rosan, trembling, dropped to his knees. He could clearly see Vermithor lying behind Draezell. The dragon's mountainous bulk filled the square, its immense head alone resembling a hill. Even without fire, a single breath from the beast could send the elderly man flying.

"And this," Draezell continued, grabbing another volume and glancing at its title. "Detailed Observations on Dragon Egg Incubation. You've been thorough, haven't you?" He tossed it onto the ground with a thud. "And this one — why are you compiling royal reproductive records?"

"Your Grace, I can explain the reproductive records," Archmaester Korlon offered nervously. "The Citadel serves the crown as a priority. Each Grand Maester's notes and journals are retrieved by the Conclave, compiled to assist their successors and to create historical chronicles. Thus, we not only retain medical and reproductive records but also those of the Small Council and other court proceedings."

Draezell stared silently at Archmaester Korlon, who averted his gaze, his fear directed more at the massive dragon looming above them. "Then explain why, immediately after the Citadel lost patient specimens, outbreaks of Shivers and Dragonpox began to ravage both my lands and the areas around King's Landing."

With a beckoning gesture, Vermithor lowered his colossal head, cold eyes fixed on the terrified scholars. Draezell's voice carried an edge of menace. "My friend died of Dragonpox. The diseases you unleashed turned King's Landing into ruins. Start explaining."

Vermithor let his massive jaws hover just above the trembling men. Archmaester Rosan, an expert in mysticism, noticed the dragon's throat glowing faintly red, a harbinger of the fire building within.

"This has nothing to do with us, Your Grace!" Archmaester Korlon dropped to his knees, crawling toward Draezell in desperation, only for Vermithor to exhale sharply through his nostrils, sending the old man tumbling backward. Trembling, the doctor flattened himself against the ground, stammering, "We only discovered it during a routine inspection of the ice vaults. They are checked every three months! We had no idea how this happened!"

"Your Grace," began Archmaester Rhaeson of History, suppressing his terror. "The dragon research — this was undertaken by Archmaester Vaegon." He hesitated before continuing. "When "Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History" written by Septon Barth, was returned to the Citadel during King Jaehaerys I's reign, Maesters naturally began studying its theories. Archmaester Vaegon was deeply involved."

At the mention of Vaegon, Draezell pressed his fingers to his temples. The Dragonless, Vaegon Targaryen — his uncle by blood, a son of Jaehaerys I — had famously renounced his claim to a dragon and become a maester, ultimately joining the Conclave at the Citadel.

The Targaryens truly are unmatched in their eccentricity, Draezell thought. They should be grateful that Barth's outlandish theories misled the scholars, and that the Targaryens themselves had lost much of Valyrian dragon lore. Otherwise, these researchers might have accomplished something truly catastrophic.

"Enough. The more you explain, the more suspicious you seem," Draezell declared. He gestured to a Dothraki youth, Argo, to bring a goblet filled with wine. With a deliberate motion, Draezell nicked his finger, letting a few drops of his blood fall into the cup. His wound healed instantly. He slid the cup toward the scholars.

"Drink," he commanded. "Each of you. Then, swear before Vermithor that you have never harbored ill intentions toward House Targaryen."

The scholars exchanged uneasy glances.

Finally, Archmaester Rhaeson sighed heavily and rose to his feet. "Your Grace, the Citadel seeks a world without magic," he said, lifting the goblet and draining its contents in one motion. "The Citadel pursues and disseminates knowledge. For thousands of years, we have remained neutral, serving every lord with an untainted conscience. Yes, we have studied magic, and yes, we have harbored many magicians. But, Your Grace, have you considered that the world does not truly need magic?"

He turned to Archmaester Rosan, who was well aware of a faction within the Citadel that despised and suppressed magic. This group had influenced multiple Grand Maesters and High Septons over the years. Under their sway, the once-magical art of ravenry had been stripped of its mystical elements. Thousands of years ago, both the Children of the Forest and First Men could communicate with ravens. Now, maesters only trained the birds to recognize roads and deliver messages accurately. Valyrian steel links in the chain of mysticism became rarities, and magical components in medicine were excised entirely. But Archmaester Rosan never imagined they would go so far.

"So, it was your faction that stole my specimens," Archmaester Korlon snarled, his face darkening with fury. He nearly collapsed from shock. "Seven hells, you've doomed us all."

Archmaester Munkun looked utterly despondent. If the field of history was compromised, it meant the Citadel's entire education system was flawed. History was one of the three foundational disciplines; every maester had to study it.

"Rest assured," Archmaester. Rhaeson said, meeting Draezell's gaze. "I know the power of your blood magic. I will not conceal anything. I only ask that you spare the innocent maesters who knew nothing of our plans."

Draezell remained silent, his gaze fixed on Rhaeson, who began listing names one by one. The list wasn't long, but some names of deceased individuals caused the others Archmaesters to gasp audibly. Among them were former maesters of Dragonstone, Grand Maester Desmond from Maegor's time, and Grand Maester Allar from Jaehaerys' reign.

"Grand Maester Elysar wasn't one of ours," Rhaeson added coldly. "That stubborn fool didn't understand our plans and almost caused them to fail. The world we desire is one of knowledge, devoid of magic — and dragons have no place in it. Their existence renders the study of warfare meaningless. Magic's presence makes countless disciplines irrelevant. A world without magic will advance far better than this one, Your Grace."

Draezell shook his head. "You people…" He turned to the remaining scholars. "If you wish for the Citadel to survive the future, I want the heads of every person Rhaeson mentioned on my desk before I leave for Harrenhal. As for this you…" Draezell suddenly clenched his fist. "Who told you I used blood magic in the wine? THIS is blood magic."

Rhaeson's expression shifted drastically before he let out an agonized scream, clutching his chest as he collapsed. Vermithor opened his jaws, releasing a small stream of dragonfire that consumed the old scholar. His bronze mask melted instantly, the molten metal fusing with his charred, blackened face until they were indistinguishable.

"Uncle, uncle!" Draezell was interrupted by Helaena running in, frail as ever, holding a pale and feverish Jaehaerys in her arms. Her face was ashen, her voice panicked.

"What happened?" Draezell stood immediately. He would not allow anything to happen to Helaena and her son now

"Jaehaerys started complaining of a headache last night," Helaena stammered. "By dawn, he had a high fever. The maesters tried everything, but nothing has worked!"

"What?" Archmaester Korlon forgot his place, shuffling forward on his knees to Helaena's side. He placed a hand on the boy's forehead. "So hot! What kind of fever-reduction methods did those fools even learn?"

Draezell's brows knitted tightly.

---

At the same time, in King's Landing.

Daemon stood tensely outside the queen's chambers, his son Joffrey by his side. Baela, veiled, blocked their entry, her voice firm as she addressed the man and boy. "Mother forbids anyone from entering. She fears she's been infected and doesn't want to pass it on to us."

"That's impossible! We were all there!" Joffrey exclaimed, struggling to accept the situation. They had all returned from the Dragonpit together. How could Rhaenyra fall ill overnight? She had gone to sleep perfectly fine but awoke shivering. Within hours, her condition deteriorated rapidly. She had gone from shivering to uncontrollable trembling and relentless coughing.

The queen, in an uncharacteristic display of decisiveness, had summoned everyone who had been near her after their return to the Red Keep into her chambers, sealing the door and refusing anyone entry — including her children.

Only Gramd Maester Gerardys, who had prepared a tonic for her upon her return, was allowed to remain inside.

Daemon tightened his grip on his stepson's hand.