"You see? I told you it was true!" The silver-haired vendor, Harald, excitedly tossed aside the copper coin in his hand and bolted from his stall. The limping man beside him stood there dumbfounded for a moment before finally reacting and chasing after Harald toward the manor walls.
They weren't the only ones. Many others followed suit, even a woman and several children emerged from the grand stone house within the estate, all rushing excitedly toward the vast open space beside the sept. The area was spacious enough—likely a good spot for a dragon to rest its wings. It had originally been allocated to a Silverblood cavalry officer, but the man had recently set his sights on courting the daughter of a Dornish noble from Blackmont Valley and had forfeited his claim to this piece of Reach land. As a result, the plot, along with its accompanying farmland, had been left vacant. Just days ago, the sept's clergy had considered clearing the land to either cultivate it for their own use or turn it into a courtyard for the estate.
Now, it was being put to use in an unexpected way. A brown-robed septon couldn't help but bow his head in prayer, grateful for the Crone's wisdom. Fortunately, the oxen and draft horses promised by the Dothraki in exchange for his wine had not yet arrived—otherwise, there wouldn't have been enough space to accommodate a dragon.
"Septon, have the cattle and draft horses that the short fellow promised a few days ago arrived?" An elderly Northman rushed to the sept's entrance. "The dragon needs food."
The septon shook his head. "Even if they arrived, there wouldn't be time to prepare them. Hurry and welcome His Highness." Lifting the hem of his mud-stained robe, he quickly followed the crowd surging toward the clearing.
The old man hesitated briefly before stamping his foot. "A few young lads, come with me to hunt deer!"
He seemed to hold some authority within the estate, as several young men who had been dashing toward the clearing immediately turned back. When they saw the black-haired elder calling them, they quickly ran home to fetch their bows and arrows. A boy from the longhouse even emerged leading a warhorse by the reins.
The gathering crowd was diverse—there were silver-haired, purple-eyed Valyrians, Andals, First Men, and even children with silver or golden hair who had lost some of their Valyrian traits, clear evidence of marriages formed after the estate's establishment. The residents within the stone walls were well-dressed, while those outside wore more modest attire. However, they were not in rags, and at the very least, they were clean and decently clothed.
From above, a dragon's song echoed through the sky like a celestial melody, momentarily stunning those below.
"Old Cripple, you retired later than I did. Do you recognize this dragon's call?" Harald squinted, trying to identify the sound.
"No idea." The old soldier known as "Cripple" Rick shook his head. "Harald, you know I spent my later years stationed with the legion in the Desert. I've been to Dragon's Nest fewer times than you have—I've never heard this kind of roar before."
The septon peered up at the growing black silhouette in the sky. "It's a large black dragon. Could it be Shadowmare, Prince Rey's mount?"
"No, that's not right!" A silver-haired youth who had emerged from the stone house spoke up loudly. "My father told me that Shadowmare is ferocious, terrifyingly gaunt, and so fearsome that its roar alone can kill. It could never sound this beautiful."
The boy's eyes gleamed with longing as he gazed at the sky, as if hoping that by staring hard enough, he could get closer to his dream of riding a dragon.
Harald, who had seen Shadowmare with his own eyes, nodded. "Indeed, it's nothing like Shadowmare." He studied the black dragon trailing behind the massive bulk of Vermithor and found that it looked nothing like the fearsome beast he had once glimpsed from afar. Shadowmare was unmistakable—its gaunt frame and protruding bony spines were all too distinct. But this dragon...
The more he looked, the more majestic it seemed. Not only was its form fuller, but its proportions—from its long neck to its tail—were flawlessly balanced. Even the dish-shaped crown upon its head, resembling a king's coronet, had grown larger and more prominent over the years, further enhancing its regal presence. Under the sunlight, its scales shimmered with silver and gold patterns, resembling a constellation of stars in the night sky.
The dragon named Starsong circled gracefully above the gathering crowd, its cry still lingering in the air. Only when Vermithor slowly descended onto the open ground beside the sept did Starsong follow suit.
It quickly became clear that Vermithor was simply too large—he had to coil his tail in front of him just to fit within the clearing. The sheer force of his landing kicked up a cloud of dust, forcing the onlookers to step back to avoid being overwhelmed. Starsong, though sizable in its own right, was far more nimble. It carefully circled Vermithor once more before settling down in a recently harvested vegetable patch beside a longhouse.
Rhaegor dismounted from Starsong with practiced ease, his short legs carrying him swiftly toward his father. As soon as Draezell slid down from Vermithor's back, the gathered crowd wasted no time. Like a rising tide, they dropped to one knee in unison, paying homage to their prince.
Draezell nodded in acknowledgment, running a hand along Vermithor's bronze-hued head. The great dragon let out a deep, contented rumble, curling its tail forward as if inviting Draezell to take a seat.
The people quickly rose, their eyes shifting between Draezell and the boy at his side. Understanding dawned on their faces.
A woman from the stone house dipped into a respectful curtsy. "Prince Draezell, Prince Rhaegor, we have already begun preparing food. Please forgive our negligence—we did not know you were coming."
"It's no trouble." Draezell waved a hand dismissively. "I simply wanted to bring my son to see our Silverblood warriors and the lands under my rule—to let him meet all of you."
"We are honored, Your Highness, Prince Rhaegor." The woman beamed with joy. "I will see to your meal at once." She glanced at the dragons with a mixture of awe and reverence. "I saw Uncle Willem take the young men hunting. The forests nearby have deer and boars. They will provide for the dragons."
"That won't be necessary." Draezell's voice was gentle as he reassured them. "Vermithor and Starsong were well-fed before we set out. We're only here to check on you and address any concerns you may have—we don't wish to burden you."
His gaze swept over the silver-haired members of the crowd—Valyrians who had crossed the seas with him and his brothers.
These Valyrians had followed the three brothers across the sea without complaint, settling down and taking root in this new land. Ten years ago, most of them had no idea where Westeros even was, yet now they had married, had children, and made a home here.
They were a crucial foundation of House Vaelarys' rule and had to be valued accordingly. However, they could not be given excessive privilege; they needed to integrate smoothly with the local population rather than rise above them.
Marriage would be the key to achieving this. From the looks of it, intermarriage had been progressing well—many of the newborns had inherited features from either their Valyrian or local parent. Of course, Valyrian mothers were fewer in number, but the blending of bloodlines was undeniable.
"Speak freely in my presence," Draezell said with a warm smile, pulling his rigidly upright son into his embrace. "If you have any concerns, bring them to me directly. I am here today to resolve your problems." He was once again holding court among the people, bringing his lord's justice to them personally.
Rhaegor recalled what Hoffa and his father had taught him about Westerosi political traditions. Generally speaking, the structure of Westerosi feudalism dictated that "the vassal of my vassal is still my vassal." Only those knights who held land directly from a lord owed personal fealty to that lord alone. Lords, in turn, swore allegiance to their liege lords and ultimately to the king upon the Iron Throne—an oath that technically took precedence over all others. However, since Aegon's Conquest, Targaryen kings had rarely bypassed their great lords to give direct commands to their vassals. As a result, this particular obligation was largely ignored.
During the Dance of the Dragons, however, the reality of this structure became starkly apparent. Before House Tully of the Riverlands had even chosen a side, their bannermen had already begun fighting amongst themselves. Likewise, in the Reach, House Rowan and House Hightower had raised armies before House Tyrell had declared its stance. Even more telling, House Beesbury, a vassal of House Hightower, was the first to rebel against its own liege. This chaos clearly illustrated the true nature of Westerosi feudalism.
A lord's rule over his lands was not simply a matter of collecting taxes or reviving old rights such as the long-abolished First Night. Instead, it was maintained through the tradition of holding court within his castle, mediating disputes, and listening to the pleas of both vassals and common folk.
House Vaelarys followed a similar governance system, with established courts in major settlements of the Borderlands, where justice was administered regularly. These courts supported local lords in governing their territories. However, a lord personally presiding over court was rare. For Draezell to descend from the skies on dragonback and invite petitions directly was nearly unheard of.
The crowd stirred at his words, murmuring excitedly before quickly settling down.
"Who should speak?" whispered voices rippled through the assembly.
"The septon must go, and you too, Harald—you're our wealthiest merchant."
"Don't push me forward, cripple. Why don't you go?"
"I'm just an old soldier. His Highness wouldn't even recognize me, and I wouldn't know what to say."
"The steward's wife should go—her husband is the governor of the estate."
"Who else?"
"Let young Harry go. He's turning fifteen next year and will be conscripted soon. He represents the youth."
"One more. We need one more."
"Can someone from another village speak too?"
"Of course! It's rare for His Highness to visit."
"Then I'm grateful for the chance."
Just as the people were still choosing their representatives, the sound of hooves rang out. A group of youths burst into the clearing, surrounding an old northern hunter named William. They were mounted on warhorses, dragging a freshly speared stag behind them. Another boy dismounted, helping to lower a young wild boar from his horse.
"Your Highness, I bring food for your dragons," the old hunter, William, said reverently, casting a wary glance at the great beast, which lay with closed eyes in feigned slumber.
Draezell waved a hand. "Thank you, but my dragons have no appetite right now. They'd rather rest. Instead, let's roast this stag and boar for tonight's feast—how does that sound?"
"Long live Prince Draezell! Long live Prince Rhaegor!" Cheers erupted from the gathered people. It took great effort from the steward's wife to restore order, reminding everyone that presenting their petitions was their foremost priority.
"Me?" Harry pointed at himself, looking at his friend Ron, the youngest son of the estate's governor. "Why don't you go? Your father is the commander of the Silverblood cavalry." He whispered nervously.
"You're turning fifteen next year," Ron replied enviously. "I still have two more years before I serve. Among us, you'll be the first to join the army. If you don't explain our situation to His Highness, who will? Oh, and—" Ron leaned in conspiratorially, "Don't forget to mention the warhorses. I've had my eye on the ones at the main camp for a long time."
"They're just too expensive," Harry admitted, equally envious of the horses raised by the Dothraki in their nearby settlement. Those nomads refused to sell their steeds outright, but they did offer them as gifts to House Vaelarys' tax collectors in exchange for goods. The tax collectors, in turn, would trade them for enough gold, wheat, wine, salt, spices, silk, and cloth to make it worthwhile.
It was these traded horses that the young men coveted. Though not the finest of the stock, they were still superior to the local breeds of the Reach. However, they were far too costly—one horse cost thirteen hundred silver stags, nearly five gold dragons, a sum far beyond their means.
The tax officer would then exchange the acquired goods for sufficient amounts of gold, wheat, wine, salt, spices, silk, and cloth in return. A portion of the horses obtained in this process would be put up for sale in the market.
It was these horses that the young men coveted. Though they weren't the finest specimens, they were still far superior to the local breeds of the Reach. The only problem was the price—each horse was selling for one thousand three hundred silver stags, nearly five gold dragons, a sum that was far beyond what these youths could afford.
"I'll say it," Harry muttered nervously, watching as the governor's wife introduced the estate to Draezell, barely daring to breathe. "Or maybe you should do it, Ron. I get nervous whenever I see His Highness."
Ron rolled his eyes in exasperation and ignored his friend.
"Your Highness, our estate currently has one hundred and three households, thirty-one of which are led by men who once followed you to this land," the governor's wife reported. She was a silver-haired Valyrian woman, already married to the governor—a cavalry officer of the Silverblood Legion—before they had settled here. Back in Volantis, she had been responsible for managing accounts on a manor estate, so she was well-versed in its operations.
"Of these thirty-one families, only nine had established themselves before your rule. The rest have intermarried with the local population. Among the remaining seventy-two households, nineteen are settlers from the borderlands, twelve are elders and strong men from the North, and the rest are natives of the Reach. As per your orders, my husband and his comrades divided the land among the people. Currently, we are able to pay twelve gold dragons in taxes annually, along with ten carts of wheat, five carts of barley, three carts of rye, three carts of oats, and six carts of vegetables."
Draezell nodded, acknowledging the estate's current state. "And what about those outside the stone walls?" he asked.
He was well aware that every Silverblood estate covered vast tracts of land—too vast for the estate's own men and women to cultivate alone. Tenant farmers were an inevitability, working the land they rented from the estate's lords. These people were still Draezell's subjects, and he needed to address their concerns as well. He also knew full well that tenant farmers were bound to be exploited by landowners—it was simply the way of things.
The state of their clothing made their status clear. A representative of the tenant farmers stepped forward behind the governor's wife. His petition was straightforward: he requested that Draezell establish a fixed rental tax. The rents for land use were currently set at the discretion of the landowners, which led to unhealthy competition—some rents were excessively high, while others remained stagnant for years.
Draezell did not shy away from the issue. He cited examples from Silverblood estates in the borderlands, but he also acknowledged that the lands of the Reach were far more fertile and yielded greater harvests. Consequently, both the tenant rents and the estate taxes collected from the landowners needed to be slightly higher.
"I will have the tax officer of your assigned castle establish a standard, and your rents will be set accordingly," Draezell stated. He knew the problem wouldn't be solved overnight; it would take time, and likely several rounds of adjustments.
But time was on his side. And he had a son. Rhaegor's dedication to upholding established rules reassured Draezell. As long as he laid down the law, Rhaegor would see to its enforcement.
"Your Highness."
The next speaker was a septon from the local sept. "The Great Sept of Jacaerys in King's Landing has distributed a new edition of the Seven-Pointed Star to all septons. However, we still follow the version endorsed by Septon Corlan. Should we switch to the new edition?"
Draezell shook his head. "No need. The new edition is merely Septon Corlan's version with a fancier cover."
His gaze drifted toward a sturdy oak tree behind the sept, its strong branches standing out. "Where did you get such a fine tree?" he asked.
"Your Highness, that is a heart tree," the septon responded. Seeing the curiosity in both Draezell's and Rhaegor's eyes, he quickly explained, "The Reach no longer has many weirwoods. We couldn't obtain one, so we used an oak tree instead."
The septon closed his eyes in reverence. "Septon Corlan taught us that the Old Gods were the faith of our ancestors before they received divine revelation. They worshipped nature, but nature itself is merely a manifestation of the Seven's power. Thus, the Old Gods are but another aspect of the Seven. Our ancestors felled the weirwoods to correct the misguided practice of blood sacrifice to the Seven, leading our First Men brothers back to the true faith."
Rhaegor listened in stunned silence.
None of the Seven's teachings he had studied contained anything like this.
How had Septon Corlan come up with such an idea?