We Bleed Silver(GOT/ASOIAF Fanfic)

Rhaegar sat somewhat dazed and helpless in this lavish hall.

The young prince had never expected to be this... lucky. Among the dragonriders who came to the Eastern Continent, Aemon and Illyon had both refused land or any formal titles. When Daeron asked whether they could help manage the conquered territories, both of them decisively declined.

Left with no other option, Daeron had to hand over the rule of the conquered lands to his younger brother, Rhaegar, granting him the title of "Prince of Lykar Laclen, Protector of the Conquered Lands." Rhaegar was left behind on the Eastern Continent with Hornstorm to govern this newly conquered region.

As for Daeron himself, he was forced to return to King's Landing—not just out of duty, but because Queen Jeyne was pregnant.

The entire Red Keep was bustling over the news, and even the gravely ill Dowager Queen Samantha returned to the Red Keep with Baelor to be closer to Queen Jeyne and provide care.

Rhaegar, along with a group of newly ennobled lords, was left to manage the war-ravaged land.

It wasn't until harvest season that Rhaegar realized how truly difficult it was to rule such a vast territory—especially one that his brother had effectively left in total ruin.

Rhaegar could still recall the dispute he had dealt with just before heading to Hoh-Surei for a banquet held by the local nobles who had surrendered.

It hadn't been particularly complicated, but it was difficult to resolve. A knight who had been granted land returned to discover his fief was nothing but a wasteland. Meanwhile, his brother—just because he was a second son and the knight was a bastard—had received a territory that still had peasants living in it. To make matters worse, both of them had their peasants forcibly conscripted by the local high lord—a brother of a great lord—who had decided that Westerosi subjects were simply more useful than the locals.

As a result, instead of becoming prosperous, the two knights ended up buried in debt.

These were the kinds of issues Rhaegar had been dealing with for a long time now, and yet he could not solve them.

All he could do was rob Peter to pay Paul, barely maintaining a fragile balance.

His thoughts drifted back to the banquet.

Rhaegar forced a polite smile and raised his goblet in response to the toast from one of the lords. In the center of the hall, the dancers spun faster and more fiercely, even the music swelling with vigor.

"Lord Fogen, what is going on?" Rhaegar didn't care for this kind of music and couldn't help but glance toward Fogen, who was watching the dance with interest.

After Shariss had been granted the title of Lord and Governor, Legion Commander Fogen also received unimaginable benefits. He had not only become the de facto ruler and heir of a vast swath of land, but had also secured control of a quarter of the military forces in the conquered lands.

Now he served as Rhaegar's chief knight, assisting him alongside the native Westerosi noble, Ser Jon Darklyn.

"Your Highness, this is our local custom," Fogen replied with a gentle smile. "It's not easy to gather so many fast-step dancers. Your Highness, we truly love and respect both you and your brother—this is our gift to you."

Rhaegar suppressed his distaste for the raucous music and forced himself to watch. "On behalf of His Majesty the King, I thank you for your offering."

"It is our duty, Your Highness," Fogen said softly.

As the music began to calm, Rhaegar seized the opportunity, goblet in hand, to approach Fogen.

"Lord Fogen, thank you for your efforts."

He gently clinked his goblet against Fogen's with formal politeness and said in a low voice, "Please, consider my proposal along with Lord Shariss."

"We understand your proposal benefits us without causing harm," Fogen replied earnestly, his voice just as low. "But these lands have operated the same way for centuries. Asking the nobles who have already submitted to the King to surrender their population..." He glanced cautiously outside. "Even if the Crown offers fair compensation, most lords won't agree to it. Trust me, Your Highness."

Rhaegar clenched his jaw. He was young, yes, but he saw things with growing clarity.

These surrendered lords truly were just as his brother had feared—two-faced and double-dealing. Uncle Viserys had wanted to tone down the war's severity, but he had never understood: the Eastern Continent was nothing like Westeros, and his brother was no Aegon the Conqueror, able to subdue all resistance with overwhelming might. Now, only one young dragon, Hornstorm, remained.

Fogen was no different. Men like him were stalling—waiting until the great lords had no choice but to ally with local warlords and former usurpers, while minor lords drowned in debt and lost their lands.

Until power shifted back into their hands.

The kingdom couldn't send enough people to reinforce them. Perhaps if the Long Summer lasted another ten years... but for now, it was impossible.

"Listen to me, Lord Fogen." Rhaegar leaned in closer. "I won't mince words with you—my position is clear. The crown is willing to offer some compensation, but the kingdom cannot afford to lose any force that can still be used."

"I'm well aware of your stance, Your Highness, but you also know," Fogen replied with a hollow chuckle, "my father and I are just two among many lords on this land. We can't sway most decisions. My advice is this—you could conscript farmers from Westeros, or… you could purchase slaves."

"Absolutely not!" The refusal was instant and resolute.

"I understand." Rhaegar's expression turned cold. "Thank you for your counsel, Lord Fogen."

The young prince raised his cup toward the gathered crowd from afar, took a small sip, and turned to walk toward the terrace.

He needed some air.

Seeing Rhaegar leave, Fogen shook his head and returned to enjoying the now-intensifying dance.

The raucous music slowly faded behind him, and Rhaegar let out a long breath.

At last, silence.

Hossaru was lush with vegetation. It was said that during the time of Rhoynar rule, those olive-skinned people had even built treehouses among the canopy.

Even now, unknown plants still thrived on the terrace, forming a natural landscape and a leafy canopy overhead.

Rhaegar took a sip of his wine. He was considering whether to ask his elder brother for help. Perhaps if his two cousins or uncles came, things might improve. A dragon was still enough to force unruly men to surrender everything.

But his sister-in-law was about to give birth, and his cousins were all overwhelmed by Aegon's disgraceful scandal…

Complicated. Very complicated.

Just as Rhaegar was lost in thought, a plainly dressed servant appeared beside him without him noticing.

"Didn't I say I wanted to be left alone?"

Sensing someone next to him, Rhaegar spoke without turning his head.

"Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, do you know how, during the Century of Blood, aside from your family and that Dragonlord who led his army—Oryon Vaelarys—the other dragonlords scattered across the world died?"

The voice was quiet and rapid.

Rhaegar couldn't even make out what the man was saying.

"Sorry, you—uh…"

Just as Rhaegar turned to ask, the man suddenly lunged straight into his chest. A sharp, searing pain exploded in his chest.

Schlk.

The blade pierced flesh, slid past bone, and drove straight into his heart. The sound was horribly clear.

It only took a moment.

And there was no more feeling.

Rhaegar only heard a thunderous, earth-shattering roar.

Then—nothing.