We Bleed Silver(GOT/ASOIAF Fanfic)

The moment Draezell extracted the black water from Alys Rivers' blood, it tried to seep into his body. Draezell snorted coldly and casually threw the black water against a slightly charred wall. As soon as it touched the wall, the black water seeped in as though it were soil absorbing water.

"Rhoynar water magic, the magic of the Fisher Queen of the Silver Sea? No, I don't feel any signs of the God's Eye being disturbed," Draezell murmured, deep in thought. According to his family's magical records, the water magic of the Rhoynar depended on the lingering magical presence of the River Lorne or other major rivers and lakes, and the Silver Sea had long since disappeared. Furthermore, even the cursed lands of the Shadowlands didn't display such strange pollution.

Draezell pondered the origins of the contamination in Alys Rivers blood and in Harrenhal. He dismissed the possibility of it being Rhoynar water magic. Despite the enmity between the Valyrians and the Rhoynar, Valyrian magic books made no mention of such aberrations in Rhoynar sorcery. Even the curse-tainted Shadowlands didn't have such strange effects. As for magic in Westeros, Draezell had always considered the Seven and the Drowned God to be purely man-made deities, entirely different from the the lord of light, which had been personified from a world consciousness. "Perhaps only those hidden Green Men know what's really going on," he thought.

With this in mind, Draezell closed his eyes, feeling the lingering traces of dragonfire in the castle, and the constantly echoing damp, cold, and eerie magical residue throughout the place. Meanwhile, more of the same pollution appeared in Alys Rivers' body, even after the black water had been removed.

"Directly affecting the bloodline?" Draezell muttered with disgust, scanning his surroundings. "Who's so malicious? How many people were sacrificed to produce such magic?"

It seemed only the Green Men on the Isle of Faces could truly understand what was happening in Harrenhal. Draezell, deep in thought, returned to the courtyard. Harrenhal's courtyard was vast enough that even Vermithor could stretch its wings comfortably. But it was clear that Vermithor sensed something was wrong with the castle, staying tense and alert.

"Alright, alright, Vermithor, we're heading to the Isle of Faces," Draezell said gently, patting the dragon's lowered head. Feeling the discomfort from his companion, he hurriedly comforted it. "It's okay, we won't stay here anymore. Be good." Draezell lightly bumped his forehead against Vermithor's nose, and after Vermithor finally relaxed, Draezell climbed onto the dragon's saddle.

As the giant dragon spread its wings to take flight, Sir Simon Strong relaxed. House Strong, though wealthy, had lost a large part of their gold to Larys, and the rest had been taken by Daemon to fund his military. Now, the Strong could no longer afford to maintain a dragon.

"My lord Simon, two more have died at the estate." Simon's nephew nervously ran over and whispered in his uncle's ear, "What happened?"

"Uncle Walder choked to death on a pie. By the time they found him, his body was cold. Aunt Alia was already decaying when they found her." The nephew's voice trembled. "Is it a curse?"

"Don't speak nonsense," Simon Strong said, covering his nephew's mouth. "Tell your uncle to immediately organize the troops, take the young men from the family, and head to the frontlines at the Red Fork. Don't stay in Harrenhal any longer." Simon had suspected a curse ever since the deaths of Lyonel and Harwin Strong, burned to death in the damp castle years ago. Now, it seemed the curse of Harrenhal might truly exist. "We'd better run."

Taking advantage of the chaos in the world, the Strong's might still be able to swap territories. Harrenhal, grand as it was, was no longer a place anyone would wish to stay.

The Isle of Faces

It was said that on the island in the God's Eye, thousands of ancient Weirwood trees were planted, each carved with human faces. In ancient times, it was believed that the First men who crossed the sea wielded bronze weapons, cutted down the weirwoos trees and slayed the Children of the Forest. Enraged, the Children raised a mighty tsunami, smashing the land bridge, the Arm of Dorne, which once connected the continents. This caused the creation of the present-day Stepstones. The rising waters flooded the continent, creating the Neck, which now separated the North from the Southern Kingdoms. But the first men, with their numbers and technological advantage, eventually chose to negotiate, ceding the forests to the Children and forming a sacred pact on the Isle of Faces. The Green Men were established to guard this covenant. As time passed, the Andal people replaced the First men, and the Isle of Faces became the only place south of the Neck still possessing vast stands of Weirwood trees.

Vermithor flew quietly around the island, not roaring to announce his arrival. The great dragon scanned the birds flying above the forest before slowly landing at the island's edge.

"Your Majesty, I didn't expect you to arrive so soon," a thin voice called from below as the dragon landed. Draezell grimaced, looking down at the source of the voice.

It was a short, elderly man dressed in bark garments, his skin wrinkled with age. He held a long staff made of Weirwood wood, adorned with a massive stag skull and several smaller skulls that didn't resemble humans. The old man's skin had a slight green tint, and his ears were slightly pointed, though it was clear he was human, not some strange elf. The old man rode a white stag, which didn't seem afraid of the giant dragon, while a raven perched on his shoulder, occasionally pecking at its feathers. A green snake coiled around the Weirwood staff, nervously burying its head in the stag's skull.

"A greenseer?"

"No, Your Majesty," the old man replied, shaking his head somewhat shyly. "There has not been a true greenseer south of the Neck for thousands of years. I merely possess the blood of the Children of the Forest, allowing me to perform rudimentary magic."

"But you can enter my dreams," Draezell said without dismounting, speaking down to the old man. "Even with the assistance of Helaena Targaryen's dragon dreams."

"That was done by the Children of the North with our help, Your Majesty," the old man responded, not bowing but with a respectful tone. "The ancient races have withered, but we still remember our ancestors sins. We continue to watch over the land north of the Wall, awaiting the final chapter of the Song of Ice and Fire. Your arrival has disrupted the harmony of the song, and we had no choice but to offend you to determine your intentions." The old man lowered his head slightly. "Your brothers know nothing of this, so we gave them a pleasant dream, but you..."

"Continue," Draezell said, calming the slightly uneasy Vermithor. He smiled at the Green Men elder, sensing the presence of many others with mixed blood of the Children of the Forest, watching quietly from the forest.

"I just didn't expect you to be so... calm," the old man said, looking into Draezell's eyes. "Six years ago, you didn't immediately wage war to conquer this land, nor did you stand by and watch the Targaryen dragons fall apart."

"Do you think all Valyrian dragonlords are mindless warmongers?" Draezell asked, slightly exasperated, pressing his forehead.

The old man smiled and nodded firmly. "At least in all these years, the only wise dragonlords we've known were Aegon and Alyssane. As for Jaehaerys, he was intelligent, but not in all matters."

"Let's leave the smart talk aside," Draezell said, motioning for Vermithor to lower himself even more. Despite crouching down, the dragon was still a mountain compared to the Green Men elder, forcing him to look up at Draezell. "What's so great about that iron throne? Dragons are important, but not everything. When it comes to ruling, people are more important than dragons. My father once told me that the true way of ruling is to build high walls to protect your people, to accumulate resources, so you can prosper. Only then, at the right time, do you step forward to lead others. Let someone else be the 'leading bird'. We take our time to build strength and hearts. The Targaryens spent over a hundred years and several generations to truly become the 'true kings' of Westeros. What right do I have to sit on the throne with just a few thousand men and two adult dragons?"

"Your father was a wise man," the Green Men elder said sincerely. "The Targaryens wasted the favor of the gods for that iron chair." The old man then recited the ancient prophecy of Asshai: "When the end times come, Azor Ahai will be reborn from the land of smoke and salt, reforging the Lightbringer and slaying the Long Night."

"I've made that prophecy myself," Draezell said, looking at the Green Men elder. "Let's get to the point. How much longer until this Long Night you speak of? The gods sent me such a large gift to hasten my arrival in Westeros, and they can't just expect me to do nothing."

"Without you, dragons would be extinct in a few years," the Green Men elder sighed, his eyes filled with pity as he looked at Vermithor. "The Song of Ice and Fire will enter a slower movement. The dragons will fall, magic will fade, and in two hundred years, the Ice Song will erupt again, gathering strength. But your appearance has altered the movement. Even though the Long Night is still destined to come, it will arrive at that time; almos 200 year. The gods surely want to see you stabilize the situation step by step, as you are now." The elder looked at Draezell. "You are a merciful person."

"You're too kind," Draezell said, pointing at himself with a hint of self-deprecation.

"There's no need for modesty," the Green Men elder laughed, interrupting Draezell's somewhat childish self-mockery. "I can see the strength of your magic. And I also see that you don't use blood magic to prolong your life, like those ancient Valyrian dragonlords. Sigh."

"Alright, alright. Living that long sounds pretty boring," Draezell chuckled. "There's still over two hundred years. It seems like, in the end, it will be our descendants who will bear all of this."

"Among your descendants, a hero will certainly arise."

"Well, that's to be expected," Draezell smiled, patting his companion. "Everything's fine for now. It's just a shame we've fallen into Daemon and little Jace trap. Oh well, oh well."

"You already know?" The Green Men elder sighed as well, but quickly realized something was off.

"I told you, I've made prophecies too." Draezell pursed his lips. "I can also interpret many things. Never mind, though. Do you know what's going on with Harrenhal?"

""Uh..." The Green Man elder hesitated for a moment, then sighed deeply. "During the reign of Aenys I, a Descendent of Harren the black, named Harren the red, recreated somes of his Grandpa horendous sins in Harrenhal, awakening this present curse. The cursed power lingering in that place... even we are unable to resolve it. It will be extremely difficult for you as well."

"I understand," Draezell nodded, realizing that Harrenhal's situation was likely more complicated than expected. He decided to set that issue aside for now. "There's one last thing. You've disturbed my dreams several times. What are you going to do to make it up to me?"