We Bleed Silver(GOT/ASOIAF Fanfic)

Prince Daeron was deeply frustrated. His request to participate in the tournament had been denied by a united front of Ser Ormund, Otto Hightower, King Viserys, and Queen Alicent. Left with no choice, he sat behind Otto and the king, awaiting the start of the tournament.

"Have all the lances and other weapons been inspected?" Steward Yamor asked impassively inside a tent near the tournament grounds. Representatives of Summerfield's blacksmiths and stablemasters stood before him.

Unlike Westerosi traditions, Volantis lacked a history of knightly jousting tournaments. The Black Wall nobles preferred the bloody gladiatorial duels of Slaver's Bay, where enslaved warriors fought each other—or beasts—for food and fleeting glory. As such, Yamor had only recently been introduced to the concept of jousts, and he found them puzzling. Why use lances designed to shatter on impact? Why dull swords and wrap maces and flails in thick padding?

Still, his meticulous oversight had thus far averted any mishaps.

"All weapons have been thoroughly inspected, my lord," replied the blacksmith representative, Tom. Renowned for his craftsmanship, Tom had been poised to become the next head of King's Landing's smithing guild before moving to Summerfield. Here, he quickly distinguished himself and now shared the role of blacksmith representative with another Volantene smith.

"Our people have guarded the armory day and night," Tom explained. "Every competing knight must retrieve their weapons from our stockpile, which is secured by sixty Unsullied. No one but myself and Gaiman, the other blacksmith, can access it." Tom spoke with careful deference, choosing his words to reflect his professionalism.

Yamor nodded slightly and handed a pouch of silver stags to Tom.

The stables had undergone similar scrutiny. Hoffa Lawkeeper had dispatched a hundred Silverblood cavalrymen to assist in the inspections, working alongside the young Dothraki, Ago. Together, they examined every steed.

Horses that had been drugged, as well as stallions and mares in heat, were immediately disqualified, their owners banished from the grounds. The strict measures elicited cheers from those seeking true glory in the lists.

Boys, whether sons of the queen or princess, were barred from competing. Even Draezell and Valar, the tournament's hosts, abstained from participating.

"Why bother with swords and lances when dragonfire speaks louder?" This jest, attributed to a minstrel years later, sought to flatter the Vaelarys patriarch of that era. However, the stern and reserved Silver Dragon dismissed it with disdain.

"My uncle simply didn't want to make the competition too predictable," said the prince in question. While Valar's martial prowess was well-known, audiences clearly preferred embellished tales to simple truths.

Valar, seated between his brother and his wife in the stands, was visibly uncomfortable. Behind him sat Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent, whose former friendship had long since turned into bitter animosity. The strained atmosphere hung heavily over the spectators gallery, though King Viserys seemed blissfully oblivious. To him, merely having his wife and daughter in the same space without a violent altercation was a triumph.

"Ser Ormund, how are things progressing?" Hobert Hightower, Lord of Oldtown, whispered near the stairway to the gallery.

Ser Ormund shook his head grimly. "The Vaelarys oversight is too strict. There's no way we can use what we've prepared for Prince Aegon."

"Not even a bribe with gold dragons?" Hobert pressed, his tone tinged with frustration.

"If gold had worked, our plans would already be in motion," Ormund replied irritably.

At that moment, Draezell's voice echoed across the tournament grounds, cutting through the air like a bell.

"This tournament will honor two Queens of Love and Beauty. The final victors will crown them in glory," he announced, his words carrying to every knight at the entrance. "For the joust, one Queen will be crowned; for the melee, another. I intend to crown my wife, Lady Diana, with a wreath of flowers and laurel. Her defenders will include my knights Aslan Rondell, Sebastian pyrebane, Hoffa Lawkeeper, and Lord Donald Tarly, as well as the young Ser Alan Tarly. Contestants must defeat them all to claim the laurel from her brow."

Five armored knights, mounted on majestic steeds, entered the arena at a slow, deliberate pace. Donald Tarly wore a visored greathelm adorned with a hunter in mid-draw, his impressive plate armor emblazoned with the Tully crest, intricately enameled on his breastplate.

The other four knights wore the distinctive silver-plated armor of the Silverblood Legion, each helm crowned with the sigil of a silver dragon.

"My sister-in-law, Lady Leyla, shall be the Queen of Love and Beauty for the melee," Draezell continued. "She will be defended by Ser Clement Celtigar, my knight Lyn Veltaken, and Gonzo Pyrebane, leading a team of seven. Defeat them if you seek to claim her crown!"

Draezell's voice rose, commanding the crowd's attention.

"The champion of the joust will win a Valyrian steel greatsword."

With that, he gestured toward the other side of the field, where young Jacaerys strode confidently to the door. He retrieved a massive box from a guard, its height nearly matching his own.

From the box, Jacaerys revealed a grand Valyrian steel greatsword, its hilt intricately carved with two mounted warriors in battle. The blade gleamed with crimson-etched veins, its craftsmanship breathtaking.

"The Seven!"

A unified voice resounded throughout the tournament grounds as every eye burned with intensity, fixed on the greatsword.

"Adrian! Tywin!" Lord Jason Lannister shot up from his seat, rushing to the railing to shout at the Westerlands' contingent outside the ring.

The two knights removed their helmets, their gazes equally fervent. One was the heir of House Tarbeck, eager to earn the favor of his liege lord and the people's admiration. The other was a cadet branch member of House Lannister, whose martial prowess had earned Jason's respect.

"Bring that sword back to the family! Adrian, Tywin, no matter which of you wins, as long as you bring it back, I'll grant you lands, titles, gold—whatever you desire!"

"Rest assured, my lord!" Adrian called out confidently. "If I could choose, I'd rather marry my sun, Lady Tyshara Lannister."

"I'll officiate the wedding myself!" Lord Jason bellowed. "Just bring that sword back."

"I will, my lord," replied Ser Tywin Lannister in a grave tone. "I'll bring another Brightroar back to House Lannister."

Similar conversations erupted all around the tournament grounds, especially among the hedge knights and landless knights. A Valyrian steel sword meant far more than mere prestige.

"The champion of the team melee will also receive a Valyrian steel dagger and a reward of 3,000 gold dragons," announced Draezell, continuing to list the prizes. "The archery champion will be awarded 5,000 gold dragons, and if the winner is not yet knighted, I will knight them on the spot."

At his words, colorful ribbons burst into the air. Knights entered the field in orderly fashion, beginning to choose their opponents.

The Kingsguard knights were also present. As soon as these white knights entered the grounds, they drew the crowd's attention, especially a man clad in black dragonplate armor.

"Ser Criston Cole," Prince Daemon urged his horse forward, lightly tapping the white knight's breastplate with his lance. "Come, let me see if you've improved after all these years."

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard silently urged his steed forward, slowly approaching the field below.

The eyes of the elder lords on the dais suddenly lit up. King Viserys let out a long sigh, and the nobles who had witnessed the tourney held during Queen Aemma's tragic childbirth exchanged knowing glances, their expressions laden with unspoken memories.

The first tilt began.

The prince and the commander shattered their lances against each other. Daemon forcefully wheeled his horse around, readying a fresh lance.

"Criston, you've grown worse!" Daemon roared, thrusting his lance with fury. He struck Criston square in the chest, but the Kingsguard knight's lance also landed firmly against the prince's breastplate.

Both men tilted their heads back almost simultaneously, gazing at the sky from their saddles.

Criston Cole was the first to recover. The white knight decisively discarded his broken lance and charged once more.

Prince Daemon was a heartbeat too slow.

With a loud crack, Daemon's lance shattered. He clung tightly to the reins, barely avoiding being unseated, while Criston remained steady on his horse.

"You're getting old," the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard said coldly.

Another round of charges began, but this time, neither combatant was as fortunate. Their lances exploded into splinters, and both riders were unhorsed almost simultaneously.

"Single combat on foot!" Daemon wasted no time scrambling to his feet. He rushed to his squire and drew an iron sword, fury burning in his eyes, while Criston pulled out a spiked mace. Naturally, the sword Daemon wielded was not Dark Sister.

Steel clashed with steel as mace and sword collided. Shields crashed against each other with resounding force.

"Here we go again," Queen Alicent remarked, her expression unreadable. Princess Rhaenyra said nothing, the silence between the two women as impenetrable as a thick wall.

"Brother, who will win?" Valar nudged Draezell's arm.

"Neither of them," Draezell replied, narrowing his eyes. "Prince Daemon is fighting with raw determination, but he's past his prime. Ser Criston is still fierce, but his skills seem a bit dulled."

Crunch.

Both shields shattered simultaneously. Criston's mace smashed through Daemon's shield and struck his breastplate, while Daemon's sword came to rest against the white knight's throat.

"If my sword were Dark Sister, you'd already be dead," Daemon said suddenly, recalling words he'd uttered years ago and repeating them now, his tone strangely familiar.

"And if I had my own mace, you'd be dead too. That's what I said back then," Criston retorted without hesitation.

The match ended without a victor, allowing both men to remain in the tournament.

One after another, knights entered the field, the sound of lances shattering filling the air.

"Where's Rey?"

It wasn't until Lord Forrest Frey unseated Ser Adrian Tarbeck with his third lance that Leyla noticed something amiss.

Her new Brother, who had been by her side, was nowhere to be found.

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