We Bleed Silver(GOT/ASOIAF Fanfic)

Harrenhal.

Ary Rivers staggered into a shadowy corner, clutching her head. Her face aged rapidly, wrinkles forming and fading in a disturbing cycle, until finally, it returned to her youthful appearance.

No one knew when this girl had appeared among House Strong. Some said she was one of the Strongs bastards; others whispered that she had lived in this castle for forty years.

Perhaps the latter was closer to the truth.

"I've found you." Draezell's voice suddenly rang out behind her. Ary jumped up, startled, her eyes wide with alarm. Her figure shifted subtly, becoming unnervingly alluring, and ripples danced across her gaze like disturbed water.

"Don't use your lowly magic on me." Draezell extended a hand, and Ary Rivers suddenly clutched at her throat, as though drowning. She struggled in vain, feeling herself being lifted into the air.

"Tell me who taught you this dark magic." Draezell drew a single black droplet of blood from Ary's forehead, and her face immediately withered, aging rapidly.

"Let me go! I'll tell you—I'll tell you everything!" Ary screamed. Black flames flared suddenly in her throat, releasing her from the drowning sensation. Her wrinkled hands still clutched her neck, but a sharp voice echoed from deep within her abdomen, as though from another set of vocal cords. "It was the Green Men of the Faceless Isle! My father was a Green Man—he taught me magic!"

"Hmph." Draezell flicked the black droplet of blood back into Ary's head. Her youthful visage returned, smooth and unblemished. "A forest witch?"

Ary Rivers nodded frantically, panic still in her eyes.

"Why are you in Harrenhal?" Draezell twisted his wrist subtly, and Ary Rivers felt the magical blood in her veins surge violently with his motions. "Why is a forest witch, who belongs in the Neck, Wolfswood, or the Rainwood, lingering in this cursed castle? marred as it is with fire magic."

"I—I wanted the Dragon King's seed."

"The Green Men ordered you to do this?"

Ary shook her head wildly, her face contorting in fear. "No, it was the castle—it told me to. It wanted me to curse Prince Daemon and you, but Daemon left too quickly. I never got the chance to get close to him. And you…" Her eyes widened in terror. "Forgive my words, but it's hard to see you as human."

"I am mortal," Draezell replied coldly, his tone tinged with weariness. "All men must die." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "The castle, you say? Forgive me—are you claiming it was the fire curse that ordered you?"

"No, no! Not fire." Ary's face twisted into pure terror. "It was something damp, cold, and silent. I don't know what it was. My father warned me to stay away, but I couldn't. I couldn't!"

Draezell stared icily at the witch, who had suddenly begun scratching at her head in a fit of hysteria. He extended his hand slowly.

---

The Riverlands.

The Hightower forces, now swelling to around twenty-five thousand men—including seven thousand cavalry—were advancing quickly. Alan Beesbury, decisively abandoning Honeyholt and Three Towers alongside Lord Costayne, had pulled back toward Horn Hill, continuously harassing the Hightower scouts while avoiding potential aerial strikes from the Blue Queen.

Lord Ormund Hightower's expression was as cold as steel as he surveyed the battlefield littered with broken bodies and shattered armor. Another scouting party had been wiped out by Beesbury's cavalry, their corpses stripped of armor.

Above, the Blue Queen screeched as she circled overhead. Finally, she tucked in her wings and landed beside Lord Ormund and Lord Unwyn. Prince Daeron slid off his saddle with an exhausted grunt, patting the saddle as if to comfort his dragon.

"My lords, Tessarion needs rest," Daeron said, fatigued. The Blue Queen let out a petulant roar, louder this time, until soldiers scrambled to drag over the carcass of a dead horse.

Snorting in disdain, Tessarion roasted the meat with a puff of blue flame, then ate in small, precise bites.

"What's the situation, Your Grace?" asked Lord Unwyn.

Daeron shook his head. "The traitors have chosen routes that obscure my dragon's vision. I can't locate Beesbury or House Costayne's forces. Even the Rowan host has slipped into the forests—they seem to have abandoned the banks of the Mead river."

"Thank you for your efforts." Lord Ormund sighed, brushing a hand through Daeron's silver hair. "The queen has reached Oldtown. My lady wife and Hobert are preparing to send the young prince and princess away. Lord Adrian Redwyne has agreed to provide ships to escort them across the Narrow Sea to escape the fighting."

"My niece and nephew?" Daeron's brow furrowed deeply. "What has happened in King's Landing? Why are they being sent away? And my mother—how fares she?"

"Dark news, Your Grace," Lord Unwyn replied solemnly. "With Draezell joining the traitors, their strength now exceeds ours. Word arrived days ago—King's Landing has fallen. The Dowager Queen is a prisoner. The so-called 'Queen' they support…" Unwyn's voice trailed off, but seeing Daeron's face turning red with rage, he hurried on. "She ordered the Dowager Queen stripped naked and thrown into Flea Bottom."

Daeron trembled with fury, but before he could erupt, Unwyn shifted the topic.

"Prince Aemond and the Small Council are missing. His Grace the King and Prince Aemond managed to slay the traitor dragon Meleys at Rook's Rest, but His Grace's dragon fell under the combined assault of the enemy dragons."

"What did you say?" Daeron felt the world lurch beneath him. The greens had only four dragons left to contest the skies, and now one of their great beasts was gone. What now? Send the Blue Queen against Silverwing and Shadowmare? She couldn't even match Vermithor or Caraxes, let alone those elder dragons.

"If only Queen Helaena could take to the skies," lamented Ser Jon Roxton. "With Dreamfyre, we wouldn't need to cower before the black dragons."

"Women are still women," Lord Unwyn muttered under his breath, though he quickly rejoined the conversation as if nothing had happened. "What of Lord Otto? Lord Ormund, has there been any word from him?"

Lord Ormund shook his head. He, too, was eager for news from Otto's voyage to Essos. Without a threat from the east, the black dragons in the south could strike Oldtown or his army at any moment.

Then, a chilling thought struck him. "Send word to the Hightower. Have Maesters Mys and Lyonel keep watch over the sea. Write to Lord Redwyne—request his ships to guard Oldtown's harbor."

The gathered lords all exchanged uneasy glances, their thoughts drifting to the same place: Dorne. Or more accurately, the newly styled Torrentine Principality, where Prince Albain Dayne ruled vast swathes of western Dorne.

Though Albain refused to acknowledge it, everyone knew his rise was fueled by the wealth and elite troops his cousin-sister had brought from Draezell. Her martial prowess and brilliant command had cemented the Dayne foothold, making her a legend among Dorne's restless houses.

"My lord, shall we continue advancing?" Ser Jon Roxton asked uneasily, sensing something amiss.

Lord Ormund Hightower gritted his teeth. "Keep marching north. We must crush the Rowan forces, seize Bitterbridge and Tumbleton, and force the Tyrells into the field."

He knew this was the green faction's only chance to turn the tide on the ground. If they could cut off King's Landing's supply routes before the black forces fully assembled, and with the Eastern fleet, Redwyne ships, and the Iron Fleet arriving in time, victory could still swing in their favor.

After all, the bloodline of the greens remained intact. As long as the two young princes were safe, hope was not lost.

Once again, Prince Daeron took to the skies, ordered to cover Lord Unwyn, Ser Jon Roxton, and Ser Bryndon Hightower's vanguard of eight thousand men, now advancing at full speed through the Rosewood, aiming for Highgarden and Horn Hill.

Within the trees of the Rosewood, soldiers clad in leaf-camouflaged cloaks over their armor quietly readied their weapons. Alan Beesbury didn't relax until he saw Donald Tarly and his son, Alan Tarly, arriving.

"Alan, what about my grandfather? Did Her Grace save him? And our dragons—what about them?" Alan Beesbury gripped the younger Alan tightly, his voice frantic with worry.

"The dragon is here."

A sudden gust of hot wind swept through the woods. Alan Beesbury finally noticed the massive beast concealed among the trees. Its pure silver scales, dulled under shadows and layers of leaves piled onto its body, gave the illusion of blending into the terrain. Valar emerged beside Alan Beesbury, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Alan. Your grandfather proved the true meaning of loyalty."

"Lord Lyman Beesbury was killed by the traitor Ser Criston."

Jacaerys Velaryon stepped forward solemnly from behind Valar. Unlike Silverwing, Vermithor's smaller counterpart, Womax, required no such concealment. Its dark green scales melded naturally with the forest.

"Your Grace," Alan Beesbury murmured, his suspicions confirmed. The moment still struck him like a blow, and for an instant, darkness clouded his vision. But he steadied himself swiftly.

"I bring sixteen hundred men who've seen blood," Alan Beesbury declared, his voice firm despite his grief. "We've bled Hightower's forces, and now, our swords are yours."

"Lord Alan, are you certain Hightower's vanguard will pass through here?" Valar asked.

Alan Beesbury nodded resolutely. "I swear it."

Valar and Jacaerys exchanged a glance before mounting their dragons once more.

The sun crept steadily across the sky.

Suddenly, Silverwing lifted her head to the heavens. Valar squinted up into the bright sky. "Is it a dragon?" he whispered, tapping Silverwing's scales gently. The dragon gave a small nod before burying her head again under the leaf cover.

Lord Donald Tarly signaled his longbowmen and crossbowmen to ready themselves. Knights dismounted, and heavily armored infantry hefted warhammers, longswords, and polearms, preparing to emerge from the cover of the woods.

The Hightower vanguard, stretched into a long, vulnerable line, finally entered the Rosewood. Ser Bryndon Hightower glanced at the terrain around them and suddenly raised his hand.

"All men, halt!"

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