We Bleed Silver(GOT/ASOIAF Fanfic)

"Mother!"

"Mother!"

"Ah—!"

Three anguished cries erupted in unison from the birthing chamber. For a moment, Daeron didn't know whether to rush to his wife or his mother. It was Baelor who acted first, flinging himself toward their mother without hesitation. "Maester! Save my mother!"

But the maesters stood frozen in place. Following their horrified gazes, the young Baelor nearly stumbled and fell, while Daeron seemed as if something had seized his throat. His eyes were wide with terror, unable to form a single word.

Blood dripped steadily from the already crimson sheets of the birthing bed, pooling into a ghastly river.

Queen Jeyne's face was pale as death, her eyes wide open. Even without checking, Daeron knew—his wife was beyond saving.

Her once-round belly had collapsed inward. From the blood-drenched skin, two tiny claws covered in scales had torn through her abdomen, revealing the lifeless child to the flickering firelight of the birthing chamber.

Baelor couldn't hold it in. He retched violently, vomiting up a mouthful of bile. Daeron stood motionless, staring at the stiff, grotesque form of the child.

"A monster... a monster killed my Jeyne..."

Daeron's voice was as cold as the grave. Even Baelor, despite trying to stifle his nausea, shuddered at his brother's tone. "Brother, Mother…"

But Daeron seemed not to hear. He slowly raised his hand, not even knowing what he intended to do. That child—that creature—looked like a demon crawled straight from the depths of the Seven Hells, its entire body covered in hardened scales. A pair of damp, shriveled wings lay limp upon its back, overlapping with its razor-sharp claws in a display both macabre and unnatural.

After a while, Daeron lunged toward his wife, frantic, trying to tear the creature from her body. But several maesters held him back with all their strength.

"Your Grace! Your Grace, the Queen Dowager has collapsed! The Queen Dowager—!" the Grand Maester shouted, clutching the King's sleeves.

Only then did Daeron slowly calm down. But when he came to his senses and looked toward his brother—

All he saw was Baelor, weeping uncontrollably.

"Brother… Mother… Mother is gone…"

Boom.

It was as if thunder exploded inside Daeron's skull. The young king stood stunned, unable to process so many devastating blows at once.

His wife and firstborn—dead. His mother—gone. His brother—stabbed.

The world spun.

The last thing Daeron saw before darkness claimed him was his youngest brother's frantic and helpless eyes.

Baelor felt as if the sky itself had collapsed.

He had once been a carefree boy, free to do whatever he pleased. He was his mother's youngest son—her miracle child. To bring him into the world, she had nearly given her life.

Baelor had always known that his life came not only from his mother's womb, but from her sacrifice. Had she not risked everything to birth him, he would never have drawn breath. Because of this, the late King Aegon never much liked the boy who had nearly taken his beloved wife's life. But his mother, his older siblings, his grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles—they had all loved him dearly.

His mother had raised him in the Black Keep—a lavish palace once favored by King Aegon himself, and later a residence for his grandfather Draezell and Uncle Rhaegor when they came to King's Landing. After Aegon's death, the Black Keep officially became his mother's private residence.

Baelor had lived there with his mother and sister, surrounded by the dark, Valyrian splendor of the palace. His grandparents often sent him curious gifts from afar. Seryna would visit frequently, riding Zarafax to the Black Keep to be with her nephew and elder sister. Everyone doted on the boy whose birth had nearly cost his mother her life.

Now the boy stood alone in the vast courtyard of the Black Keep, his small frame beaten by a storm of rain and lightning, fury echoing in the thunder. Sleep was impossible. Too much had happened in a single day for a mere child to endure.

His beloved mother, already weak from heartbreak after losing her daughter, grandson, and son in such short order, had collapsed in the birthing chamber. Not even the Grand Maester and his colleagues could save her.

In the end, Queen Dowager Samantha had been called to the heavens by the Stranger.

His brother Rhaegar had been assassinated in a distant land. Tragically, neither their ancestors nor the dragons could save him from the hands of that foolish assassin.

Once again, after hundreds of years, a Dragonlord had died mysteriously in Essos. The ensuing wrath of the Hornstorm reduced an entire city to flames—even Fogen, who had attended the feast, was burnt to a charred husk. But for House Targaryen, it was a grave provocation.

Queen Jeyne—gentle beyond belief, so nurturing she was like a mother to all—was slain on the birthing bed by her own child. And his revered older brother, struck by unimaginable grief, now teetered on the edge of madness.

Baelor had never felt so helpless.

Never.

"Seven, please… please tell me what I should do," the boy prayed over and over in the storm. He prayed to every one of the Seven, begging them to return his mother to him.

But no matter how well he knew every holy verse—even at his young age—

The Seven did not answer.

The Father did not deliver a gentle and solemn command as the scriptures said. The Mother did not caress his cheek like a loving parent. The Maiden was nowhere to be seen. The Warrior had vanished. The Smith was powerless. The Crone's lantern had gone out. And the Stranger kept silent.

The boy fell into despair.

"Seven," he began to curse the gods in his heart.

And then—

At last, a voice answered him.

What responded was a strange and unpleasant sound, a dragon's cry—ugly, eerie—but to Baelor, it felt comforting.

The rain grew heavier.

The entire Black Keep—no, all of King's Landing—was engulfed by the downpour. Beneath the dark curtain of rain, a deep gray glow warmed the soaked boy to his core.

Baelor lifted his head and looked into a pair of large golden eyes flickering in the rain.

Slender, powerful tendrils extended gently from the rain.

The mighty dragon, having lost its rider, reached out to the boy who had lost his mother.

"Candlelight… Mama, is that you?" Baelor slowly pressed himself against the dragon's searing tendril, letting its rising heat chase away the dampness clinging to him. "Mama… have you abandoned me? I miss you so much…"

Candlelight gazed gently at Baelor as he clung to the tendril, little by little wrapping his whole body around it, like a child curled up in his mother's arms.

Warmth seeped into his soul, and suddenly, the boy was overcome by an indescribable drowsiness. He didn't care that Candlelight had become a wild dragon. He simply hung there, on that tendril, and drifted into sleep.

Candlelight remained in the rain, watching the child of her lost rider.

For a long, long time.

Eventually, the tendril Baelor held onto lifted slowly.

The great dragon carefully placed the sleeping boy onto her back. The other tendrils wove into a thick, impenetrable net, shielding Baelor from the storm.

The golden light and dark gray fire slowly dimmed in the rain.

But the massive shadow of the beast still loomed, swaying amid the downpour.

As if telling a story.

Dragon's Nest.

Except for the yet-to-return Seryna, all of House Vaelarys's dragonriders had gathered in the main court of Dragon's Nest.

Every one of them was armored, even the young Rhaegor stood silently, fully equipped behind his elder siblings.

Draezell had rarely donned his Valyrian steel armor, Dragonrider.

He scanned his dressed children and grandchildren, finally settling his gaze on his eldest son, Rhaegor.

Rhaegor met his father's eyes. He understood what was about to happen. The dragons from Oldtown had already flown toward King's Landing. The events in Essos had truly crossed the Dragonlord' bottom line.

When Vaelarys was still weak, withdrawing from the intricate politics of the eastern continent had been necessary. No one wished to live with death constantly looming, where any companion might suddenly fall dead, and one's own life hung by a thread.

But now—with both families together boasting over a dozen dragonriders—they had the power to crush anything that stood in their way. To provoke the Dragonlord now… was no longer resistance, but sheer folly.

Rhaegor could already imagine the fate awaiting those scheming, self-important fools.

No matter who sent the assassin, Rhaegar's death had brought considerable benefit to various factions—Shariss, local lords, even those in Volantis might have dispatched that imbecile.

But it didn't matter anymore.

There was only one price for enraging the Dragonlord:

Blood for blood. Vengeance by kin. A sacred duty.

"My children," Draezell said softly. His voice was low, but every Vaelarys who heard it felt their blood ignite. Even their bonded dragons stirred with agitation and excitement.

"We have no wish to recreate the arrogant, cruel Valyria of old. But that does not mean we are weak," Draezell's voice remained gentle, yet to every ear, it thundered.

"Rhaegar was my grandson. His murder cost me two grandsons and two daughters—each carrying our precious blood. So, my children, an eye for an eye, blood for blood." Draezell drove the Silverblood Sword into the ground. Never before had he seemed so enraged. "Mount your dragons. Fly with our kin by marriage. Show those who do not know their place—those greedy, shortsighted fools—what it means…"

He stepped down from the dais of the throne, each footfall weighing heavy upon the hearts of his children.

As if a great dragon were walking among them.

"The wrath of true dragons!"