Chapter 57: The Prince and the Prince
Dragonzel, who had been sitting cross-legged, watched Prince Jacaerys Velaryon sneak in and studied his unusually expressive face with quiet thoughtfulness.
This child…
Dragonzel once again ignored the reality that he was less than seven years older than Jacaerys. He knew very well why the boy had come to visit him so late at night. Though young, Jacaerys was highly perceptive, and Dragonzel could see a shadow of Lynn in him.
What a pity.
In this world, where bloodline and law were equally important—and often bloodline outweighed law—a questionable lineage meant that Jacaerys would inevitably face both open hostility and hidden schemes.
Yet the responsibility did not lie with the child.
The fault rested with his foolish and irresponsible mother, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, who had allowed desire to cloud her judgment. As a member of the royal family, the named heir to the Iron Throne, and the intended link to House Velaryon, she had committed a grave error—and worse, allowed her children to bear the visible marks of that mistake.
It was no wonder the Greens had ample justification to attack both the Princess and her sons.
"Jacaerys, it's so late. Shouldn't you be resting? Be careful—you might not grow tall!" Dragonzel said with a faint smile, gesturing for him to sit beside him on the bed while lightly ruffling his dark brown hair.
To be honest, Dragonzel liked the boy very much—perceptive, composed, brave, resilient, and courteous. Few could dislike such a child.
What a pity.
"My lord," Jacaerys said, speaking as a squire, his tone respectful. "I have a question I wish to ask."
This surprised Dragonzel slightly.
In Westeros, the relationship between a knight and his squire often resembled that of a foster father and son—provided the bond was genuine. Some squires were little more than servants, others worse, but some were heirs, kin, or entrusted youths meant to learn and grow under guidance.
Jacaerys clearly belonged to the latter.
"Speak, Jacaerys," Dragonzel replied, idly rubbing the bedsheet beneath his fingers. "I will answer as best I can."
Jacaerys lowered his head slightly.
"In your opinion… which is more important—bloodline or ability?"
Dragonzel smiled faintly.
"Valyrian blood requires only one thing."
He raised a hand and pointed out the window. In the distant hills, Vermithor and Vermax had made their nests, awaiting the turn of the year. Earl Tarly had prepared an abundance of game—some already butchered, others left alive—so the dragons might feed as they pleased.
"Dragons," Dragonzel said calmly. "In the days of Old Valyria, any man who could ride a dragon—whether legitimate heir or bastard born of some fleeting indulgence—held status. Power was forged by fire and blood, not parchment and law."
Jacaerys hesitated, his voice trembling slightly.
"But… dragons are not everything now. I understand what I am… what Lucerys and Joffrey are as well. If only we resembled our father more—if only we bore silver hair like true Valyrians instead of this…" he touched his brown hair, "…perhaps things would be different."
Dragonzel's hand came down gently, pressing the boy's head.
"You are innocent."
His voice was firm.
"I am your knight. It is my duty to make this clear to you, Jacaerys. Your mother made a grave mistake—but that burden is hers, not yours. And for now, the law still stands in your favor."
He leaned forward slightly, locking eyes with the boy—eyes of deep violet, burning with quiet fire.
"So long as King Viserys I Targaryen does not revoke your mother's claim, your duty is simple: prove your worth."
"Show the realm that whatever doubts they hold about your blood, your ability surpasses them. Show them that you can bring peace, stability, bread, and prosperity."
Dragonzel's tone deepened.
"The people may hesitate to accept a king of questionable lineage—but they will never accept a weak or tyrannical one. A wise ruler can make the world forget his flaws. And even if history records them, centuries later, it is strength and wisdom that will be remembered—not gossip."
"If anyone tries to weaponize such flaws, they will only earn the scorn of sensible men."
Jacaerys nodded slowly.
"Thank you… my lord."
"Enough thinking for one night," Dragonzel said, ruffling his hair again. "Go and rest. After the New Year at Horn Hill, we still have battles ahead."
Jacaerys bowed slightly before quietly slipping out of the room.
Left alone, Dragonzel exhaled a long breath.
The year 123 AC passed quietly beneath the warm winds of summer.
In the southern Reach, there was scarcely any sign of autumn or winter—only endless abundance. Wheat ripened in golden waves, flowers bloomed in excess, and the population flourished.
Only prosperity could describe the Reach in such a season.
Fleet after fleet from the Varezes Family arrived in Westeros, bringing with them strong young settlers who infused vitality into newly claimed lands. Villages sprang up like rain-fed mushrooms along the Borderlands and the Stone Road.
Workshops resumed operation, producing a steady flow of luxury goods, wine, and silk. Meanwhile, distant trade cities continued funneling wealth back through banks and merchant networks established by the Varezes.
By the time Dragonzel and his party reached Highgarden, yet another grand feast awaited them.
Nearly every notable lord of the Reach had gathered.
Lord Tyrell of Highgarden had chosen to host the banquet outdoors, upon vast green fields beneath open skies. Had Dragonzel not written to dissuade him beforehand, he might have even arranged a full tourney.
That would have been excessive.
Beyond the encampment, Vermithor and Vermax rested in silence.
Within, banners fluttered proudly:
The triple castles of House Peake,
the golden tree of House Rowan,
the fox and blue flower of House Florent,
the centaur of House Caswell,
the horn of plenty of House Merryweather,
and the red apple of House Fossoway.
Yet all these gathered beneath two dominant standards:
The golden rose of House Tyrell—
and the towering lighthouse of House Hightower.
Ser Gwayne Hightower, standing beside Prince Daeron Targaryen, raised his cup as Dragonzel and Jacaerys approached, dust still clinging to them from their dragons' resting grounds.
But before he could speak—
A coarse voice suddenly rang out from a nearby table:
"How can a woman rule over men?"
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