We Bleed Silver(GOT/ASOIAF Fanfic)

Kungor Potter was a Faceless Man.

That was all anyone needed to know. The moment he entered the House of Black and White to begin his training, his past ceased to matter.

He had just ended the life of a water dancer. These elegant swordsmen held a certain prestige in Braavos, but there were always those who desired their deaths.

Kungor Potter had used the water dancer's own blade to kill him.

To the outside world, it appeared the dancer had drunkenly stumbled into a ditch and accidentally impaled himself on his sword. Yet, Kungor knew better. He had offered the man's life to the Many-Faced God.

That night, the Faceless Man heard a summons in his dreams.

He returned to the House of Black and White, seeking answers from his mentor, the priest of the Many-Faced God known as the Cold Man.

"Someone shall speak without deceit."

The Cold Man lowered his head, hiding his decayed face within his hood.

"The Faceless Men were born from the slaves of Valyria, just as the ancestors of this city beneath your feet were."

When the Cold Man raised his head again, his face had changed. Beneath the hood now was the unremarkable visage of a Rhoynar.

"The dragonlords used magic to force slaves into eternal servitude, laboring beneath the volcanoes. They nearly hollowed out the Fourteen Flames, provoking the fury of the fire within. Beneath those mountains lay the very source of that fire.

"The dragonlords wielded fire magic to resurrect slaves who perished in the flames, condemning them to endless suffering. These slaves longed for the gift of true death. And so, the first Faceless Man was born. The Many-Faced God granted liberation through death, bringing solace to the suffering. Our faith, and our craft, emerged hidden from the dragonlords' sight."

The Cold Man rose, pacing slowly around Kungor. His voice was devoid of emotion.

"This is our history. Yet, like all things, there is another perspective."

Switching to High Valyrian, he continued:

"Among the dragonlords, there were a wise and powerful group od pyromancers and blood mages who uncovered the peril concealed within the Fourteen Flames, Then chose to betray their kin."

The face beneath the hood shifted again, now appearing as a Valyrian, with silver hair falling over violet eyes.

"Some dragonlords secretly freed a group of slaves and taught them how to undo the bindings of fire magic. These slaves, aided by their benefactors, began granting true death to others."

This time, the hood revealed only emptiness.

"The Many-Faced God was pleased with these developments," the Cold Man said, reverently circling Kungor again. "Thus, He bestowed blessings, aiding the slaves in their clandestine endeavors.

"But the dragonlords eventually discovered the deception. With help from their few allies among the dragonlords, many slaves escaped Valyria, finding refuge in the swamps and lands beneath our feet."

"Thus Braavos was founded, and those who mastered the blessings of the Many-Faced God alongside the magic taught by the dragonlords created the order of the Faceless Men."

Seeing the confusion on Kungor's face, the Cold Man stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"The dragonlords who once aided the Faceless Men have paid their price. Now it is time for the Faceless Men to return the favor." The void where the Cold Man's face should have been seemed to stare directly into Kungor's eyes.

"The symphony of earth and rivers has ended; the Song of Ice and Fire is about to begin. The gods pluck the strings, with mortals as their notes. All was meant to be set. Yet, a hand to alter the melody has entered the game. Fire and Blood, bronze and silver, smoke and salt—Faceless Men cannot remain untouched."

"Someone shall journey east," Kungor murmured. "Yet someone cannot guarantee the target will be found."

"You need not worry." The Cold Man retrieved a coin from the pool of poisoned water. "Seek out Orys Serasmyr, a counselor to the Sealord. He departs tomorrow for Lys aboard a ship."

"Someone shall reach the target," the Cold Man said. "As is the will of the gods."

***

Vaelarys's fleet had been making significant progress on the battlefield. They had successfully annihilated no fewer than ten pirate fleets in the Summer Sea. The pirate king of Lys, Sharakk Lohar, saw his fleet intercepted by Vaelarys's forces. 22 were destroyed, 10 captured and the rest sunk. Sharakk himself fled the battlefield in disgrace aboard a small skiff.

After defeating Sharakk's fleet, Vaelarys's ships turned north, routing the privateer fleet of the Triarch Alliance. They forced its commanders to raise white flags and release the Volantene merchant ships they had seized.

With these victories secured, Vaelarys's fleet suddenly changed course, sailing eastward toward Slaver's Bay. It appeared they were pursuing a Lyseni slaver convoy whose escort ships had recently been sunk.

At this moment, the Silent Lord, the Weeping Boy, and the Sailfish detached from the main fleet, charting a northern course.

Their destination was simple: the Smoking Sea.

The Doom had obliterated nearly everything. The once-proud Valyrian peninsula was shattered into fragments, shrouded perpetually in thick smoke capable of blotting out the sun. It was said that the waters of the Smoking Sea were poisonous, their boiling surface emitting toxic fumes that ensured no ship entering the area ever returned. Tales from sailors spoke of terrifying sea monsters dwelling in its depths.

Everything warned mariners to stay away from this cursed region.

"The legends are true," Draezell declared gravely, holding up the map drawn by his father. Though they were still some distance from the Smoking Sea, he could already smell the sulfur thick in the air and feel the intoxicating density of magic around him.

He had never felt his blood surge with such vitality before.

"Even approaching this sea feels ominous," remarked Zesar the Shadowweaver, limping as he stared at the black smoke rising on the horizon. The ocean itself had taken on a foul and murky hue.

Gathered aboard the Silent Lord, they convened to decide their next move.

"This place is teeming with magic, my lord," said Malak, the Red Priest, his voice still hoarse and broken. Unable to articulate fully, he relied on wild gestures. "I can feel the fire's elation. This might very well be where the Lord of Light was born!"

The Red Priest gestured energetically as he spoke.

"Everyone, listen," Draezell commanded, bringing the room to silence. "This sea is steeped in curses, just as we anticipated." He pointed to the route marked on the map. "We don't have enough magical materials to shield the large ships. They can only approach the outskirts of the Smoking Sea. From there, we'll take smaller boats to reach our destination."

Draezell gestured for Hoffa to bring over a chest. The golden-eyed Hoffa obediently placed it on the table with precision.

Inside, neatly arranged, were thirty glass vials filled with red liquid threaded with silvery strands.

"My blood, combined with my father's runes, can effectively resist the curse's corruption." Draezell pushed the vials toward the group.

"I need fifteen people," Draezell said firmly. "Fifteen brothers who are willing to live and die by my side."