We Bleed Silver(GOT/ASOIAF Fanfic)

"Don't take unnecessary risks," Otto sighed, his gaze fixed on his grandson. "Dragonstone isn't just home to Syrax and Caraxes; there are still several wild dragons there. Back when the Cannibal was hunted, it took four fully grown dragons working together to bring it down. That incident drove the other wild dragons into hiding. Aren't you worried about provoking them—or worse, encountering Princess Rhaenys and her Red Queen?"

Aemond paused for a moment before replying firmly, "We still have Dreamfyre and Sunfyre."

"Helaena is no warrior," Alicent murmured. "And neither is Aegon."

"Enough!" Criston Cole interrupted sharply, his voice cutting through the tension. "We are here to discuss how to restore order and defend the rightful king, not to undermine our own cause. Besides, that whore might not even survive childbirth." His tone was laced with venom. The bitterness of his past with Princess Rhaenyra fueled his unwavering loyalty to the Greens.

"Without an army and the support of the major lords, Rhaenyra cannot claim the Iron Throne," Otto stated. "We need to act swiftly to establish the reality of Aegon's reign. A decree from the rightful king carries far more weight than one from a usurping pretender."

Tyland nodded, setting down Lord Lyman's ledgers. "I'll begin arranging funds immediately. The treasury holds tens of thousands of golden dragons, and several times that in silver. I propose splitting the funds into four parts: one to Oldtown, one to the Iron Bank, one for hiring mercenaries and fleets from the Free Cities, and one for King's Landing's operations." Tyland smirked ruefully, knowing he would have preferred to send some of the funds to Casterly Rock. But in this precarious moment, the Greens weren't in the mood for displays of self-interest.

"How many troops can the Westerlands muster?" Aemond asked.

"Eight thousand—fully armored veterans, including at least fifteen hundred knights," Tyland replied. "If my brother is given enough time to recruit peasants, hire sellswords, and rally bannermen, the numbers could grow further."

"Can the Westerlands muster 20,000 troops in the short term?" Aemond pressed.

"Given a month, around 25,000," Tyland estimated. "Three months, and we could raise between 35,000 to 40,000."

"Send the eight thousand first. I need elite troops," Aemond said as he strode toward the map of Westeros hanging on the wall. "Grandfather, when can the Hightower forces be deployed?"

"A month," Otto responded, moving to stand beside him. "It will take at least that long for Lord Ormund to assemble 20,000 troops and sufficient provisions, even with the ravens. We owe thanks to the Seven for blessing us with a long summer."

"Tell Lord Ormund to send part of his forces ahead to pressure the undecided southern lords into taking our side," Aemond said, his eye fixed on the map. "If the Reach falls entirely in line with us..."

"Eighty to a hundred thousand men," Otto answered. "And that's without a full levy."

"Ser Tyland, the Westerlands forces must move into the Riverlands with all possible haste," Aemond said, fixing his gaze on Tyland. "Assist Lord Tully in suppressing rebellious Riverlords, block the Neck to prevent the northern savages from marching south, and then prepare for an immediate assault on Harrenhal." Aemond's single eye turned toward Lord Larys Strong, the master of whispers, standing among the gathered lords.

Larys shrugged indifferently. "The Strongs never recognized me as their liege, so do as you will."

"The southern forces must feign a threat toward Casterly Rock, pinning down the troops of the borderlands," Aemond continued. "Can Daeron's dragon join the fight now?"

"He'll die!" Queen Alicent exclaimed, her voice trembling with fear. "You cannot send your brother into such danger! If House Velaryon supports Rhaenyra, Daeron will be facing two massive dragons far larger than his own, and another dragon nearly as powerful."

"That is his duty," Aemond interrupted coldly. "If Aegon wishes to keep the crown on his head, he must fight as a dragonrider. When necessary, even Helaena must take to the skies and fight with her dragon."

"And where is Aegon?" Aemond suddenly noticed that the centerpiece of their plans was absent.

"I've sent men to find him," Criston Cole admitted, realizing the glaring omission. "He's not in the Red Keep?"

Aemond sighed in exasperation, grabbing the commander of the Kingsguard and storming out of the chamber. "Why would he be in Helaena's bed? You should've searched the Flea Bottom!"

At dawn, Flea Bottom was as chaotic as ever. The streets were suffused with an unbearable stench, mingling the smells of joy and death. The two fine horses ridden by Aemond and Criston stood out conspicuously. Yet, whether it was a gap-toothed man, a stout laundress, or a thug with a mouth full of sharp teeth, all slunk into the shadows at the sight of the two riders.

Aemond dismounted and, with a single kick, broke open the rickety wooden door of the Rat Pit.

Inside, chaos reigned. Drunken patrons laughed uproariously as they threw copper coins and unrecognizable scraps of food into the pit. Two naked boys were savagely biting at one another while their master lashed their backs with a whip, leaving bloody welts.

A closer look revealed that the boys teeth had been deliberately filed to sharp points. Shredded flesh littered the pit.

A boy no older than seven knelt beside a dazed Aegon, pouring ale into his cup. Aegon, completely naked and visibly intoxicated, raised his mug with a foolish grin.

Aemond's single eye froze the proprietor in place. The obese man hurriedly lashed the boys apart, shooed the patrons out one by one, and then scurried away himself. Aemond carefully sidestepped the foul puddles on the floor, pulled the kneeling boy aside, and tossed him a handful of coppers. Then, without hesitation, he grabbed Aegon's manhood and yanked.

Aegon jolted awake. "Wha—what are you doing here, little brother?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" Aemond slapped him across the face. "We're breaking our backs for you, and you're here making a spectacle of yourself?"

"What's going on?" Aegon hastily pulled on his trousers and draped a silk robe over his shoulders, though it was already stained with filth of unknown origin.

Aemond sighed deeply, his frustration palpable. He leaned in close and whispered into Aegon's ear, "Father has passed. Mother and the council are working to secure your claim to the throne."

Aegon's eyes widened in shock. "Father's dead? Why haven't the bells tolled? What are you all doing? Rhaenyra's the heir! I'm fine as I am—I don't want to sit on that cursed chair! Stealing the throne from my sister? That's absurd!"

Aemond took a long, steadying breath.

Criston Cole interjected icily, "As long as there is a silver-haired, trueborn Targaryen prince alive, that whore princess and her Strongs bastard will never sit securely on the throne. Your so-called sister would do anything to secure their place." The Lord Commander's voice was full of menace. "You will die, Aemond will die, Daeron will die, Helaena will die, and your children will die!"

"That's... that's impossible," Aegon stammered, his voice trembling. "We've had our differences, sure, but my sister—she wouldn't—she's not like that."

"Power changes everything. Think about it—imagine your sons standing alongside those Strong bastards," Ser Criston continued coldly. "The people will only grow firmer in their suspicions about bastard bloodlines. Every house loyal to the sacred laws of the realm will secretly rally behind the true and rightful king. That whore will sacrifice anything to secure her rule, and that sacrifice will be you, your brothers, and your sons."

"This... this..." Aegon stammered, his face pale with panic.

"Don't forget my eye," Aemond interjected, his tone sharp and cutting.

Aemond said no more. With a single glance, he signaled Criston to escort Aegon back to the Red Keep without delay. Criston hoisted Aegon over his shoulder despite the latter's protests, throwing him unceremoniously onto a horse. "Your Grace, this is for the purity of the true dragon bloodline—and for the realm itself."

---

At dawn, Blackwater Bay

A small rowboat quietly moved toward the distant Crab Isle. The silver-haired, silver-bearded middle-aged man rowing the boat was an agent of House Vaelarys, directly serving Tigarro Dargaleon. Unfortunately, his raven had not been sent in time; the gold cloaks had already raided the tavern where he had hidden it.

"Larys betrayed us," the man thought grimly. "But at least he gave us the intelligence we needed."

He rowed faster. Time was of the essence.

---

4th day of the Third Moon

The day crept by in eerie stillness. No Silent Sisters or septons were summoned to the Red Keep. The king's body lay on the couch, rotting and reeking. No bells tolled, and no ravens flew to Dragonstone. Instead, countless birds were dispatched to every lord who might support Aegon's claim.

By then, Aegon had finally accepted the crown, though no one knew what ultimately swayed him. Perhaps it was the sight of his carefree children?

---

6th Day of the thirs moon

At dawn, two ravens departed from Crab Isle—one bound for Dragon's Nest and the other for Dragonstone.

---

That same morning

"Am I even the king?" Aegon paced restlessly around his chambers, dressed in fine red-and-black robes. His hair had been meticulously combed, and, truth be told, without the haze of drunkenness, he was quite a handsome young man. "If I'm the king, then crown me already. Mother, don't tell me you're having second thoughts again."

Queen Alicent—or rather, the Dowager Queen—wore a black mourning gown adorned with elegant green embroidery. She stood silently by the window, gazing out at the city.

Throughout King's Landing, the mourning bells tolled. Hundreds of black ravens simultaneously took flight, their dark wings carrying darker news.

"It is time, Your Grace," Alicent finally said, rising and gathering her skirts. "The people and lords await you at the Dragonpit."

"I want the Conqueror's crown," Aegon declared, though hesitation lingered in his voice. Yet the desire in his eyes was unmistakable.

Acting Hand of the King, Ser Criston Cole, bowed slightly. Otto Hightower had already left for the East to recruit mercenaries and secure alliances with the Triarchy.

"As you wish, Your Grace."