We Bleed Silver(GOT/ASOIAF Fanfic)

"Speak, I am listening," Jacaerys said, gradually growing accustomed to his role as king. The brown-haired youth now carried the bearing of a ruler. Yet, it was not the crown on his head that commanded the respect of the court, but rather the imposing figures surrounding him.

Vermax, the colossal dragon coiled behind him; Prince Draezell Vaelarys, clad in armor with sword at the ready; and Vermithor, the mighty dragon perched above, gazing disdainfully at all within the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. Vermithor, the greatest living dragon, had proven its supremacy in battle, having brought down Vhagar with barely a scratch and slayed the former first-ranked dragon with swift finality.

Ser Simon Strong began his plea, enunciating each word carefully: "Your Grace, House Strong has endured much since being granted Harrenhal during the reign of Jaehaerys I. From the betrayals of Larys Strong to the deaths and calamities that have plagued us, the Strong name has carried a heavy burden. Yet, Your Grace, except for Larys the Clubfoot, the Strong family has remained steadfastly loyal to you and Queen Rhaenyra. In light of this, we are willing to forgo any rewards and instead humbly ask for your permission to appoint a new head for our house and for a new domain to call our own. In return, the Strong family will cede Harrenhal and all its associated lands."

The mention of relinquishing Harrenhal caused murmurs to ripple through the hall. Lord Forrest Frey appeared intrigued but quickly subdued his interest. Despite the disdain of the Riverlands nobility, the Freys had endured for centuries and witnessed Harrenhal's notorious history.

House Hoare had been burned alive by dragonfire, the last members of House Qoherys were castrated and executed by Harren the Red before the heart tree, and the ancient Valyrian line of Qoherys was extinguished. House Harroway perished under Maegor's wrath, and House Towers was left barren after inheriting the cursed castle. The dowager queen Rhaena Targaryen and her son, Aegon The Uncrowned, had met their end at Harrenhal. Now, House Strong stood as the latest victims of its curse.

The fates of the Strongs were grimly known to all. Ser Lucamore Strong, a former Kingsguard, had broken his vows and sullied both his white cloak and the family's honor with a brood of children. Ser Lyonel and Ser Harwin Strong had met a mysterious end, burned alive in their damp castle. Larys Strong, cunning but crippled, had perished in dragonfire despite all his schemes.

Once wealthy and powerful, House Strong was now a shadow of its former self, with barely a handful of survivors and their coffers nearly empty.

Perhaps the curse of Harrenhal was real. At least, the idea was persuasive enough for those near Lord Frey. His close allies, Lord Petyr Piper and the diminutive Lord Benjicot Blackwood, dissuaded him from acting. Both were loyal companions from the war and had earned Lord Frey's respect. Benjicot and Kermit Tully, the clever and wiry son of Lord Elmo Tully, had even gifted Lord Frey a new moniker: Knight Frey, a title he found both gratifying and endearing.

"I understand your request, Ser Simon," Jacaerys said, glancing at Draezell. The prince considered for a moment before speaking. "There are lands left ownerless by the war. If Ser Simon is agreeable, House Strong can be granted Dunstonbury and its surrounding lands, formerly held by House Peake, in exchange for Harrenhal. However, House Strong must swear fealty to me."

"That is no issue at all," Ser Simon replied joyfully, hurriedly presenting the last of his family's youth. His sons and nephews had perished in battle, and his great-nephew had met a gruesome end after being drenched in Vhagar's blood. Now, House Strong had been reduced to a single surviving boy.

Tall and lanky, with a leonine nose and a surprisingly handsome face, fourteen-year-old Luca Strong bore a striking resemblance to Jacaerys. However, people instinctively ignored this similarity — after all, the boy on the throne had dragons.

"Very well, Luca Strong," Jacaerys declared. "In recognition of your house's service, I approve your grandfather's request. House Strong will relinquish Harrenhal and its surrounding lands. In return, I name you Lord of Dunstonbury, granting you all rights over Dunstonbury and its surrounding territories. As for Harrenhal, it will remain a royal domain for now, awaiting a family worthy of its burden. The crown shall grant it as a reward for loyalty."

"Thank you for your grace, Your Majesty," Luca Strong replied, kneeling on one knee to accept the new lands and pledging his loyalty to Draezell.

Meanwhile, Draezell had learned of Alys Rivers' fate. She had decided to leave Harrenhal and return to the Isle of Faces. The Green Men welcomed her on the condition that she teach the island's children the magic she knew.

In the northern camp, Dominic Bolton nudged Medrick Manderly and whispered, "If I recall correctly, Dunstonbury used to belong to House Manderly."

Medrick shrugged indifferently. "My house was driven out of there centuries ago by the Gardener King. The current Manderlys are loyal to the Starks. As for Dunstonbury, it's probably been turned into something unrecognizable by the Peakes."

House Manderly, the Lords of White Harbor, were the North's only house to follow the Faith of the Seven and maintain knightly traditions. Once a powerful family in the Reach and descendants of Garth Greenhand, they were exiled by a Gardener King, who feared their influence. House Peake aided in their expulsion. After wandering for years, the Manderlys were granted land and refuge by the Kings of Winter. Since then, they had been steadfast vassals of House Stark, serving as an essential bulwark for the North.

The Great Trial concluded with a balance of rewards and punishments. The nobles began to disperse, and Valar, riding Silverwing, flew back to Dragon's Nest after the meeting.

Jacaerys and Draezell, however, had no intention of resting. After a brief stay at Harrenhal, the prince and the young king departed. Their journey would take them to villages destroyed by the war, castles surrendered by the Westerlands, and towns ravaged by plague.

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On the banks of the Red Fork.

A village still smoldered with smoke.

Vermax idly played with its tail outside the village, while Vermithor watched Vermax's antics with equal boredom.

Meanwhile, Jacaerys had seated himself at the village's entrance, sitting cross-legged on the ground. Beside him sat Draezell. Before the young king was a simple bowl of bean soup, identical to the food eaten by the villagers gathered before him.

"The village has no children left, Your Grace," a middle-aged man with one leg sighed. "When the dogs of the West came, they killed every man they could find and took every woman they saw. As you can see, we don't have enough people left to sow the next crop of seeds."

Around the man were scattered elderly villagers, children, and a few old women. "May the Seven bless you, Your Grace," an elderly woman, who seemed to command respect, said through her tears. "Our neighboring villages are in the same state. Thankfully, our knight is dead; otherwise, not even the seeds would remain. At least now we have a little left — barely enough to last us for a while."

Jacaerys silently raised the bowl in his hands and took a large gulp of the bean soup. It was completely devoid of salt, the beans tasted od — neither soft nor hard — and the texture was unpleasant. It was hardly filling.

"Is this your seed grain?" Jacaerys asked as he stared at the soup, realizing something.

The old woman sighed and nodded.

Jacaerys turned to Draezell. "My lord."

Draezell shook his head. "Jace, this is your trial. Knights collect taxes to serve their lords. This is the tradition of Westeros and the foundation of the finances for every great house, including the crown. You must find a balance between starving the people and an empty treasury, or alienating the nobility."

"What about the reparations from the West?"

Draezell gave him a knowing look and sighed inwardly. Jacaerys is a good boy, with the potential to become a great king. But alas...

Jacaerys understood. The reparations from the West would ultimately come from their smallfolk and the miners in their gold mines. The nobles would not shoulder much of the burden themselves.

Although this also meant their tax base was being destroyed, who among them cared about the future?

"I understand," Jacaerys said, gazing at the gathered villagers and the septons among them. He took large gulps of the bean soup offered to him, finishing it entirely.

"I will prepare enough food for everyone to survive the winter," Jacaerys promised. "Please, trust me. I swear by the Seven, I will see to it that you live through this winter."

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