We Bleed Silver(GOT/ASOIAF Fanfic)

"Shut your mouth!" Boremund slammed his hand on the armrest of his chair, his curled mustache trembling with fury, quivering like a shaken sieve. "I'm not dead yet! It's not your place to act out! Guards! Guards!"

Guards dressed in the crowned stag livery hurried into the hall. They glanced nervously at the tension between father and son, their eyes betraying a hint of unease.

"Take him back to his chambers! He's not to leave without my permission! No one is to provide him a horse, and lock away his hammer and armor!"

"Father, you can't do this!" Borros, held firmly by the guards, began to panic. "Seven above, all I want is to fight the Dornish!"

"Seven hells," Boremund groaned, clutching his gout-ridden legs. The pain was excruciating, like fire coursing through his bones. "You're my son; I know exactly what's going through that thick skull of yours. This matter must remain contained to Prince Draezell and his allies. Enough! Take him away! And you lot," he barked at the guards, "if he escapes, I'll use your heads as footballs!"

Borros continued to shout about fighting the Dornish as the guards dragged him out.

"Maester," Boremund called, waving over the stoic man who had been standing by. The maester handed him a cup of milk of the poppy, which Boremund sipped slowly. The painkiller worked wonders, numbing his agony, though it came with a heavy price—addiction. At his age, the Lord of Storm's End could no longer live without it.

"I dictate, and you write," Boremund instructed the maester, who quickly brought out parchment and ink. Unlike his son, who could barely read a map, Boremund was literate, but the habits of noble reliance on maesters were hard to break. The maester spread the parchment before him and nodded. "My lord, you may begin."

""To His Grace, the King: Civil war has erupted in Dorne, and Prince Draezell, alongside certain marchers lords, has become involved. In defense of the kingdom's marchers, I humbly request Your Grace's permission for the lords of the Stormlands to muster troops and strengthen our defenses."

"Yes, my lord."

Boremund reviewed the maester's draft and, satisfied with its content, handed it to a waiting servant. "Take this to the rookery. Ensure it is sent immediately."

"Now, write this," Boremund continued. "To Lord Royce Caron, instructing him to secure Prince's Pass and, if necessary, provide support to Prince Draezell in the name of the marcher lords. To Lord Kevan Swann of Stonehelm, order him to coordinate with Lord Lorent Grandison of Grandview to defend the southern borders and be prepared to reinforce our armies."

The maester swiftly completed the letters. Once reviewed and dispatched, Boremund finally allowed himself a breath of relief. He hadn't expected events to escalate so quickly. For Dorne, long considered cautious and unified, to descend into internal conflict was unprecedented. Even the ever-prudent Prince Qoren had mobilized his forces.

What had Draezell done?

"I merely lit a fire," Draezell said, smiling as he met the gaze of Lord Donald Tarly. "The tensions within Dorne have always existed; they just needed a spark."

"We moved too hastily in our previous campaigns against Dorne," Lord Tarly acknowledged. "We gave House Martell the opportunity to unify against us. What did you promise to Levyn Yronwood and that Dayne boy? Gold? Troops? A crown?"

"All of them," Draezell replied with a nod. At his gesture, Jacaerys approached, carrying a decanter of wine. He poured drinks for both men before stepping back respectfully, ears perked to catch every word.

"Empty promises wouldn't sway these Dornish vipers, my lord," Draezell remarked, sipping his wine.

"I concede the point," Tarly replied, raising his own goblet. "Our next step, then?"

"We will array our forces on the plains south of Whiskey Gorge," Draezell said, standing and moving to the map hanging in the center of the war tent. "The terrain offers open sightlines and is the natural path northward. Our enemies consist of House Jordayne's 1,500 infantry, the remnants of House Wyl's 400 cavalry, House Toland's 1,100 cavalry, and House Uller's 4,000 troops. I'll scout their positions from the skies on Vermithor."

"Lords Aslan Rendell and Lynn Valtaken have reinforced us with 200 cavalry and 800 infantry. That brings our forces to 600 cavalry and 2,000 infantry from your house, 3,000 infantry and 600 cavalry from mine, 300 cavalry and 1,200 infantry from marcherss nobles, Lord Edric's 300 cavalry and 800 infantry, and 350 armored troops from Lord Selmy. We outnumber them in both cavalry and total manpower."

"Lord Tarly," Draezell said, turning to him. "I request that you and Lord Arlan command the left and right flanks of our cavalry during the battle. Will that suit you?"

"I would be honored," Tarly replied, grinning broadly. "I will deliver victory to you."

"There's no need for concern," Draezell reassured him. "Valar's dragon and mine will cover our forces from above."

He turned to Jacaerys, who was watching them with barely concealed envy. "And you, young Jace, need not feel impatient. In another year, Vermax will be ready to take to the skies. Then it will be your turn to ride into the heavens."

The night deepened.

The Princes' Tent

This well-furnished tent had been specially prepared by Draezell for Jacaerys and Lucerys. It was considerably cleaner than the quarters provided for other nobles, with Unsullied guards stationed outside. However, the two boys had declined special treatment, insisting that, as squires to Draezell and Valar, they needed to remain close to serve their great-uncles at all times. Aside from changing clothes and other private matters, they typically stayed near Draezell and Valar's tents.

At the moment, the two boys were helping each other put on their armor.

"Jace, has Draezell..." Lucerys hesitated, struggling to find a respectful term before reluctantly settling, "...has Great-Uncle said when the battle will begin?"

Jacaerys glanced around before covering his brother's mouth. "That's a military secret. You can't talk about it so carelessly."

"Valar said the same," Lucerys admitted, realizing he had asked an inappropriate question but still feeling a bit frustrated. "If only our dragons could fight, Great-Uncle Draezell would definitely tell us when the battle starts."

"Our dragons, even if they were as strong as Silverwing, wouldn't stand a chance in a real battle," Jacaerys said knowingly. He understood the vast differences between dragons. The scales of their young dragons wouldn't even stop larger arrows, let alone withstand the rigors of war. At least another year or two would be needed before they could be safely unleashed in combat. "Following our great-uncles into battle is the best way to learn. Besides, when we return to Dragonstone, Mother will be proud of us."

Having finished fastening the straps on his brother's armor, Jacaerys turned around, allowing Lucerys to pull his straps tight in return.

"I also want to see Joffrey's expression," Lucerys said with a laugh. "Heh, both his brothers are heading into battle, and he's still playing with toys. Heh."

"Your Highnesses." Hoffa Lawkeeper, the golden-eyed steward of Draezell, stood at the tent entrance. Along with his younger brother, Adams Lawkeeper, he was responsible for Draezell's personal security. "It's time to prepare for departure."

"We're coming right out," Jacaerys said, quickly fastening his wrist guards. He and Lucerys emerged from the tent to find Hofah standing there, holding his Valyrian steel spear, Lawkeeper, and wearing a stern expression. "Princes, His Highness has instructed that you stay with me in the main camp."

"But weren't we supposed to ride out with the left-wing cavalry?" Jacaerys asked, disappointed.

"Lynn was speaking out of turn," Hoffa replied, annoyed. "You're not of age yet. The cavalry's responsibilities are heavier, and having to protect you both on top of that would be a grave mistake on the battlefield. Now, come with me."

"Understood. Thank you."

Hoffa nodded at the two princes and motioned for them to follow him.

Under the cover of night, the army began its march toward the designated battlefield.

\---

The Yronwood Encampment

At the same time, in the camp of House Yronwood, Lewyn Yronwood squinted at the silver-haired young man before him—Tygarro Dargaleon. The young man, renowned for his mastery of poisons, had made a lasting impression from their first meeting. Lewyn had never seen anyone daring enough to down a cup laced with scorpion venom and toxic mushroom extract, nor someone capable of instantly identifying the poison's components and crafting an antidote on the spot.

This test had forced Lewyn to regard the envoy from House Vaelarys with utmost seriousness.

"You're saying the Martell main forces are currently stationed near the Great Dunes?"

"That's the report Prince Valar brought back after scouting on dragonback," Tygarro said, meeting the earl's gaze with a smile. "This is your opportunity. Prince Qoren's army is newly assembled and must navigate the treacherous terrain of the Great Dunes. Defeating the 'Pride of the Sun' now would leave no one questioning that house Yronwood deserves the Dornish crown."

"Does Prince Draezell's promise still stand?"

"Of course," Tygarro replied with his usual cheerful expression. "A crown of gold is merely the first investment. The prince will crush the eastern Dornish noble coalition. If you defeat Prince Martell's forces, House Yronwood will have at least ten years to expand freely across central and eastern Dorne. Prince Draezell will also establish trade with the High King of Dorne. After all, the last great invasion was led by the Martells, not the Yronwoods."

"What about House Fowler? What if they threaten our rear lines?"

"You are free to unleash your scouts," Tygarro answered, still smiling. "The Prince's Pass doesn't belong solely to the Fowlers."

"I understand," Lewyn said. "Envoy, return to your young prince and tell him this: Never trust the honor of Dornishmen, but always trust their spears. House Yronwood is grateful for the support and will ensure that the Martells—who rely on women for their strength—pay the price. However, remember this: Dornish spears and loyalty are not won with small favors. They belong to ourselves alone."

"If that day ever comes," Tygarro replied, spreading his arms in mock embrace, "we'll gladly rise to meet it."

---

Morning on the Plains

The arid plain stretched endlessly, dotted only with sparse desert vegetation. The borderland knights moved slowly onto the high ground, gazing down at the advancing Dornish host.

Unarmored or lightly armored militia armed with spears were the first to appear in view, followed by the armored desert warriors. On either flank, banners rose above the advancing Dornish sand cavalry.

The sun crept steadily into the sky.

Lord Tarly stood coldly, gazing at the distant enemy with Heartsbane unsheathed and ready.

In the infantry ranks, Jacaerys craned his neck, trying to catch a clear view of the opposing forces. His hands, gripping the reins, were already slick with sweat.

Above the clouds, concealed by their cover, two dragons silently approached.

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