Draezell ran his fingers through Rhaegor's hair. He wasn't quite sure how to explain to his son the distortions that Septon Corlan had inserted into the Seven-Pointed Star. While these alterations served to strengthen their rule, they were, in many ways, forced interpretations—or, to put it bluntly, outright shameless.
Septon Corlan, in his teachings, had linked dragons and the royal dragonlords to the Seven. Yet, in truth, neither dragons nor the dragonlords had much to do with the Faith of the Seven, a relatively young Andal religion. When the Qarlon the Great, the leader of the Andals, was annihilated by the dragonlords, no one witnessed the Seven performing miracles to save him. Nor did anyone see the dragonlords relent.
And today, the holy sites of the Seven in Andalos had all turned to dust. No one had seen an avatar of the Seven descend upon the world to rescue the lands of their so-called "true believers".
Still, tying the dragonlord lineage to the Seven was an effective tool for ruling over the devout followers of the already well-established Faith of the Seven in Westeros. As the only known religion with a defined doctrine but no verifiable miracles or magic, the Faith of the Seven found religious syncretism to be an advantageous game to play. They were desperate for any proof that their gods could perform miracles—and what better evidence than dragons?
The Faith had already been broken, first by Maegor's sword and dragonfire, then by Jaehaerys' gentle words, and now by Draezell's looming threat of dragons. Its spine had been shattered beyond repair. Moreover, as a religion that, at least for now, had no connection to magic or other supernatural forces, neither House Targaryen nor House Vaelarys had to worry about the Faith suddenly producing real sorcerers to challenge their rule.
So why not make use of them?
---
A grizzled hunter from the North, Willem, followed behind the septon cautiously. There was no sign that he had just led a group of young hunters to bring down a stag and a wild boar. Slowly, he spoke:
"Your Highness, my name is Willem. I am the estate's hunter. I once followed Lord Bolton south and remained here. You have given us—old men and children who would have died on the southern battlefields or in the frozen wastes of the North—a chance to live. I am deeply grateful."
Draezell smiled. "Don't say that. Your presence has been a great help to me. You are experienced farmers, hunters, and warriors. Without you, my estates would not have been built so quickly or so well."
He patted Rhaegor's shoulder, signaling for him to take the next part.
Rhaegor swallowed nervously, straightened his expression, and tried his best to appear mature. "Hunter, please tell us your requests," he said. But despite his effort to act composed, he couldn't help but fidget slightly.
The old hunter chuckled. He had once served as a hunter for Earl Domeric Bolton and his father, meeting many Northern lords and their children. From experience, he could tell that this shy boy before him truly had the heart to learn from his father what it meant to rule.
It seemed they would have a good life ahead.
"Your Highness, I have no petitions. We have already settled the woodland boundaries with another Silverblood estate and with Lord Adams Lawkeeper. Now we no longer have to worry about losing our heads for mistakenly hunting on a noble's land."
The old hunter tapped his own head in jest. The Riverlands' natural environment was far more forgiving than the North's. The forests of the North were filled with ferocious shadowcats, wolves, bears, and the occasional wildling raiders coming south. Hunting there—even for someone who once served House Bolton—was fraught with peril, not just from the wilds but from the noble lords. Many a time, a noble would take offense simply because a common hunter had caught better game than they had. Seizing the game was a mild response; the old hunter recalled a companion who had been arrested and sent to the Wall under the charge of poaching simply because he had bested one of House Hornwood's vassals in the hunt. No Northern lord would risk offending another noble over the fate of a mere hunter.
Rhaegor listened in silence. From Maester Visari, he had learned much about Westerosi customs, and Draezell had explained the rules of this land to him. Lords held absolute dominion over their lands—every fish in the river, every tree in the forest, and every beast was their property. Commoners who hunted, fished, or cut wood without the lord's permission were branded as poachers. In the North and the Vale, some lords opened their forests in winter out of concern that their starving peasants—who were also their property—might die. But for most of the year, only the lord's own hunters or those with explicit permission could hunt, and even then, they were required to hand over at least half of their catch.
That was why so many risked poaching.
But hunters in the Silverblood estates were exempt from these restrictions. They were directly under the command of House Vaelarys, and Draezell had granted them the right to hunt. In return, they only needed to stay within the estate's designated woodlands and pay a portion of their catch—whether in furs or game—as tax.
The old hunter spoke at length, sharing tales of how the Northerners had adjusted to life in the South, as well as everyday hunting stories. Rhaegor listened with great interest. These matters were not overly complex—despite the differences between the North and South, they were not as vast as one might imagine. The Northerners were rugged, the Borderlanders warlike, and the Valyrians, after losing their homeland, had blended with other cultures. The Riverlanders were polite and temperate, while the stonefolk of Dorne were, at their core, Andals. In truth, ethnic integration within the Vaelarys lands was not much of an issue.
Furthermore, every Silverblood estate had a small school—sometimes at the estate's center, sometimes near the sept—where assistant maesters preparing for their exams served as teachers. They provided basic education to the children of wealthy commoners and selected the brightest among them to be sent to the new academy in Silvercrown.
With this foundation, perhaps in the generation of Harry and Ron, a new mixed race would emerge in the Borderlands.
Draezell had already chosen a name for them in secret.
How about… the Silverbloods?
---
After the old hunter finished, an elder from a nearby village cautiously inquired about how the locals might join or form a Silverblood estate. The benefits, after all, were tempting.
Draezell patiently answered their questions.
The simplest way was to enlist. Not as a temporarily conscripted peasant soldier, but truly enlist—leaving behind farm work to join the Silverblood Army camps across the land. This condition alone deterred many villagers.
After all, what people sought from war was not a life of uncertainty but wealth. Abandoning their land to serve in an army with no clear end to their service hardly seemed worthwhile.
Finally, it was Harry's turn. The boy gazed up in awe at the massive dragon above him. Vomisor was enormous—so large that even as it lay there resting, Harry could feel the heat radiating from its body and the sheer, terrifying majesty it exuded. But more than the dragon, what truly weighed on the boy was the presence of the man seated on its tail.
Dressed in a high-collared purple riding coat, silver half-cloak, and bearing neatly trimmed silver hair and a short, well-groomed beard, Draezell still retained his handsome features. Yet, it was the aura of the Lord of Dragons that stood out the most.
Harry nearly forgot what he was supposed to say. It was Draezell who finally broke the silence. "Child, what brings you here?"
Summoning his courage, Harry spoke. "Your Highness, I am about to take my father's place in service, pledging my loyalty to you and your house." His High Valyrian was hesitant and stilted, and he ultimately reverted to the Common Tongue under Draezell's amused smile.
This time, his words flowed more smoothly. "Your Highness, as per your decree, Silverblood cavalrymen must provide their own warhorse before enlisting. Once we pass the training camp's examination, the army will issue us a new mount, but…" Harry hesitated.
"Speak, child," Draezell encouraged, already knowing what troubled the boy. This Silverblood estate was near a settlement and pasture controlled by one of Argo's khalasars. Though the khalasar's main force remained near Summerfield, a khal had stationed some of his kos and their riders here to raise warhorses for House Vaelarys.
"It's about the horses, isn't it?" Draezell stated.
Harry nodded. "Yes, Your Highness. The horses sold through the tax officers are far too expensive. Our estate is the largest Silverblood estate in the region, and the cavalrymen from here must ride the best horses—that is our pride!" His voice grew louder with conviction, and in the end, he raised his head confidently before the prince.
Draezell chuckled, reassuring the boy. "No need to envy those horses being sold. Once you enter the camp and pass your examination… let me see… your batch of recruits will arrive just in time for the new warhorses. You won't have to spend a single coin."
The horses Harry spoke of were a crossbred lineage developed by Argo's khalasar for House Vaelarys. This breed had been in the making since Draezell's father's time. It was a blend of the striped tigers of Volantis, the desert coursers of Dorne, the swift and agile horses of the Reach, and the hardy steeds of the Dothraki.
First, the massive and powerful tiger horses were bred with the short but enduring Dothraki mares. Then, their offspring were crossed with the nimble and swift desert horses and the strong warhorses of the Reach. It took decades, but three years ago, the first stable generation of warhorses was finally bred. These magnificent beasts were not only powerful, swift, and enduring but also strikingly beautiful. Each one bore a solid coat of a single color—lacking even the faint stripes of their Volantene ancestors.
Thus was born the legendary Vaelarys Silverblood Horse.
Harry soon concluded his petition, and as night fell, he and his father accepted the villagers' invitation to join them for dinner.
As the evening deepened, Draezell and Rhaegor did not trouble the villagers by taking their homes. Instead, they chose to rest beside the dragon.
Rhaegor, unable to sleep, climbed to his father's side.
"Father…" He hesitated. "Father, today I saw the petitions and the state of our Silverblood estates." The boy met his father's deep violet gaze, then spoke with determination. "Father, have you considered that one day these Silverblood estates might become like the castles of knights—'independent kingdoms' within our lands?"
"That is inevitable." Draezell was pleased with his son's insight and playfully flicked his nose.
"Father, I am being serious." Rhaegor crossed his arms in mock sternness, trying to look like a grown man. If not for the fact that he was practically clinging to Draezell, the prince might have truly seen a younger version of himself in his son.
"It is inevitable," Draezell agreed. "While I live, they may not dare to act out. But when I am gone, they may begin to rule themselves."
He continued, his expression ever calm. "People will always want fewer masters above them and more land beneath their feet. Wealth is no different. The officers in these estates will gradually swallow up the lands of their subordinates until their comrades become mere tenants. And the common folk will do the same—expanding their holdings at the expense of others. So, my son, what will you do about it?"
Rhaegor fell into deep thought, only to be roused when Draezell lightly tapped his head.
"Is your dragon just for show, my son?"