We Bleed Silver(GOT/ASOIAF Fanfic)

On the deck of the Silent Lord.

Obara Dayne and Evens Dayne stared at each other, wide-eyed. Evens legs were shaking so much he had to lean on Maester Visari, enduring the latter's disapproving glare.

"You claim to be this generation's 'Sword of the Morning'?" Draezell scrutinized the young woman before him. Through his magical vision, her body radiated a brilliant starlight-like energy, and the greatsword on her back shone even brighter. If Valyrian steel was like frozen, scorching fire, then Dawn was akin to a blazing star condensed into a single form. No wonder it was said in Westerosi legends that this greatsword was the equal of any Valyrian blade.

"Of course." Obara Dayne was also sizing up Draezell. She sniffed the air suspiciously and remarked, "Are you one of those Targaryens from the Iron Throne? No, you don't carry their stench."

"Watch your words, girl," Lynne Valtaken warned in a deep voice.

Unbothered, Obara prepared to draw her sword but paused upon noticing the three warriors at Draezell's side—Lynn, Hoffa, and Argo—already with hands on their weapons. Argo had even unslung his Moonsinger from his back.

Obara reluctantly lowered her hand. "Alright, alright, I apologize."

Draezell pointed at Obara Dayne and asked Evens, "Is what she says true?"

Avoiding his sister's fierce gaze, Evens mumbled evasively, "Obara is indeed one of the finest swords in our family, but this generation's Sword of the Morning is our great-uncle, Ser Oberyn Dayne. He hasn't passed away yet, so—"

"Dawn is in my hands now," Obara interrupted, rolling her eyes at her brother. "Uncle Oberyn is too old. He can no longer shoulder the responsibility of wielding Dawn."

"Tell me about this sword," Draezell said, clearly more interested in Dawn than the internal affairs of House Dayne.

Proudly, Obara drew Dawn from her back and planted it into the deck in front of her, causing Lynn to grimace.

This is our ship, for the gods' sake!

However, since Draezell made no comment, Lynne kept quiet and listened as Obara began her explanation.

"The Daynes trace their lineage back ten thousand years to the Age of Dawn, at least two thousand years older than the Starks of the North. Our ancestor followed a falling star and built a castle where it landed. Dawn was forged from that fallen star. It's said that the star's heart was burned with celestial fire, and from it emerged the greatsword Dawn. With this blade, our ancestor ruled over the Torrentine River for thousands of years—until Queen Nymeria crossed the Narrow Sea with her ten thousand ships and sent the last King of Torrentine to the Wall."

Obara glanced at the silver-hued blade hanging at Draezell's waist. Though she didn't recognize it, its craftsmanship clearly marked it as a weapon of the highest quality.

"I wonder if I might have the honor of testing your blade," Obara said, her eyes gleaming with excitement as she looked at Draezell.

"You're going too far!" Argo stepped forward this time. "I'll be your opponent."

"Argo, let me handle this." Draezell gently pushed Argo behind him. "I can hear Silverblood rejoicing. Let her cross blades with Dawn."

"As you command, blood of blood." Argo obediently sheathed Moonsinger and stepped back to his original position without hesitation.

"Good thing your ship is large enough," Obara quipped, suddenly lifting Dawn and slashing down without warning.

Draezell didn't flinch. With a precise flick of Silverblood, he intercepted the descending strike just as Obara shifted from a vertical slash to a sweeping horizontal arc.

With a resonant clang, the forceful Dawn was the one sent flying. Obara quickly spun to recover, attempting a low strike from below. But Draezell countered preemptively, striking Dawn mid-motion and twisting his hilt to tap her wrist sharply.

Clang.

Dawn fell to the deck. The match was over.

"I lost. Excellent swordsmanship," Obara admitted cheerfully. "Thank you for allowing Dawn to experience the joy of battle."

Draezell nodded and gestured for her to retrieve her sword. "What do you plan to do next?"

"I was planning to head to Pentos to become a mercenary."

"I could lend you a ship to get you to Pentos," Draezell offered.

"But your arrangement seems far better than anything Pentos could offer. Do you need my sword?" Obara's tone was hopeful.

"That could work. Register with Lynn," Draezell replied, pointing to Lynn, who raised an eyebrow as if to say, You may not have bested my lord, but you lasted longer than most—an impressive feat.

"However, be warned—your sword may one day strike your fellow Dornishmen," Valar teased, squatting nearby with a smirk.

Obara flicked her golden hair nonchalantly. "Who cares? Dornishmen have been killing each other just as much as they've fought the Reachmen or the cowards of Storm's End."

As Obara departed, Diana Tarly emerged from the cabin. Her younger brother, Alan Tarly, had been settled on another ship, where Zesar the Shadowbinder was tending to his injuries. Despite having lost a leg, the poison master also happened to be adept in Eastern medicine.

"Lady Diana, what are your thoughts on Obara Dayne and the state of Dorne?" Draezell handed the young woman, now clad in a pristine silver gown, a cup of light wine, his smile inviting.

"Obara is unlike most Dornish people," Diana remarked. "She doesn't care about many things that preoccupy others in Dorne. To her, knightly tales hold far more allure than the lust-filled literature spread across the Dornish sands. The greatsword Dawn and battle captivate her more than men or women ever could. She loves warhorses and armor more than silk dresses and prefers combat over a girl's embroidery and weaving."

Draezell nodded, motioning for her to continue.

Diana cast a wary glance at the boy before her. Overhead, two massive dragons circled lazily, indifferent to the conversations unfolding below.

"I see no sign of deception in her words," Diana continued, now elaborating on her knowledge of Dorne. "The Dornish are not a monolith. The Salt Dornish of the eastern coast retain many Rhoynar traits, the Stone Dornish of the western mountains resemble the mixed bloodlines of Andals and the First Men—tall, fair-skinned, and imposing. The Sand Dornish of the central deserts exhibit features of both, with their deeper hues shaped by the harsh desert climate. In ancient times, the region was divided among numerous small kingdoms. It wasn't until Queen Nymeria's ten thousand ships arrived that the rising Martell family gradually unified Dorne, extinguishing its many kings."

"Go on."

"There are several powerful houses in Dorne. The Martells, of course, rule as Princes of Dorne, governing the entire region. House Yronwood of Yronwood was once the mightiest force in Dorne. Though they were defeated by the Martells, they remain formidable and bear a longstanding grudge against House Fowler for their betrayal. In the west, the Daynes and Blackmonts are not entirely subservient to the Martells. Meanwhile, the Ullers of the central deserts are infamous throughout the Seven Kingdoms for their unpredictability, and the wyl in the northeast are vicious and cunning, frequently clashing with lords of the Boneway. They are also reviled by the Yronwoods for once poisoning a Yronwood during a feast."

"Yet during Aegon the Conqueror's attempt to subdue Dorne, they still united," Draezell observed, though he didn't delve further. Instead, he nodded at Diana, seemingly impressed by her breadth of knowledge.

"Thank you for your praise," Diana said, lifting her skirts to curtsy.

"What are your plans now?"

"We wish to request your protection until my tempestuous father cools down," Diana admitted with a resigned expression. "He's far too domineering, but perhaps time will temper him."

"Cabins have already been prepared for you and Alan aboard my ship," Draezell assured her. "I hope your stay is pleasant."

The wind swept over the massive fleet.

On the Narrow Sea, over a thousand ships sailed westward, their sails billowing high, sending a clear message to the opposite shore.

Westeros.

We are coming!