We Bleed Silver(GOT/ASOIAF Fanfic)

"This is why I've always said armies are useless," remarked Randyl Caron, the Lord of Nightsong, as he watched eight winged behemoths rise into the sky. He turned to Aslan Rondell, standing beside him. "These eight dragons could hold off a hundred thousand men."

Vhagar ascended sluggishly, her old age showing as the other dragons quickly outpaced her. A frustrated Aemond Targaryen repeatedly shouted, "Faster! Faster!" as though his commands could hasten the ancient beast.

Meanwhile, Vermithor unleashed its searing golden flames upon the front line of the Yronwood soldiers. The first rank of infantry was reduced to ash in an instant, followed by the second and third. The Yronwood's most elite warriors disintegrated under the dragonfire, as fragile as snowmen beneath the midday sun.

"Hold your ground!" shouted Lewyn Yronwood, tumbling off his horse in desperation. Aware that staying mounted would make him an easier target, he quickly sought cover, grabbing a crossbow from a nearby marksman. "Aim for the riders! Kill the dragonlords, and the beasts will retreat!"

The archers loosed their arrows, but their shafts fell short of Vermithor, who soared higher after its initial fiery assault. The next wave of dragons descended.

Sunfyre, the youngest and swiftest, swooped across the Dornish lines, its golden fire carving a molten path through the ranks. The once-proud infantry dissolved into chaos, and the cavalry broke into a frantic retreat. The mere presence of dragons in the pass ensured that no horse would remain still.

Following Sunfyre came Syrax, who spewed her blazing fire alongside the blood-red flames of Caraxes, encircling the Dornish army in a fiery ring. In mere moments, the Dornishmen found themselves trapped in an inferno.

Finally, Vhagar arrived, her colossal shadow blotting out the sun. Alongside her, Vermithor returned for another strike. Their combined flames, hot enough to melt stone, cascaded from the heavens like rivers of molten fury.

That the Yronwood soldiers had lasted this long was nothing short of miraculous. But their resolve shattered the moment Vhagar and Vermithor unleashed their wrath. No man stood willingly in place to be roasted alive, and when Vermithor's fire incinerated a group of archers, the remaining soldiers broke ranks entirely.

"Your Grace, we must flee!" gasped Arthur Sand, a soot-covered Yronwood bastard, as he led a horse to Lewyn. It was one of the few steeds that hadn't bolted. "To Yronwood Castle—"

"That's eight dragons," Lewyn muttered, his voice hollow as he gazed at the dark silhouettes against the sky. Red, gold, yellow, and pale white flames rained down across the pass, igniting soldiers into human torches and reducing them to ash.

"One dragon alone obliterated Harren the Black and House Hoare. How could Yronwood Castle ever compare to Harrenhal?" Lewyn spoke to himself, regret heavy in his tone. He thought bitterly of the time when Tegaros offered terms—terms he had foolishly rejected.

It would have cost only a fraction of their lands, the minting rights to the Iron Throne, and a symbolic act of fealty that would have caused no real harm. In exchange, he could have preserved half of Dorne's territory. And now\...

"No more kings," Lewyn said, removing the crown from his head. The golden circlet, a gift from House Vaelarys, felt heavy in his hands. "After today, whether the House of Yronwood even survives will depend on the mercy of the Dragon King."

Above, Shadowmare sped through the air, Rey reveling in the wind that swept back his hair. His command of High Valyrian surpassed even some of the princes, and Shadowmare obeyed him with a sharp screech. A stray bolt from the ground struck its scaled body but harmlessly ricocheted off its armor-like hide.

Rey had often described Shadowmare as having "bones growing on the outside." Its lean, gaunt appearance belied an extraordinary toughness. This hardened exterior gave it an edge during playfights with the other young dragons, who often came away growling in frustration.

Thin streams of pale fire shot from Shadowmare's maw, striking the ground and detonating with an ear-splitting roar. Rey might not have noticed exactly what his flames had hit, but Lewyn would never forget.

The pale fire consumed everything, exploding just overhead and engulfing Arthur Sand, the crown of the "High King of Golden Dorne," and Lewyn himself in a searing white blaze.

The remnants of the Yronwood host heard only the thunder of approaching hooves as the Borderlands cavalry swept in to claim what the dragonfire had not.

One by one, the dragons descended upon the ruins of Kingsgrave, their mighty forms encircling the shattered battlefield. The eight dragonriders dismounted in silence, their gaze settling on the quiet Qoren Martell and his retinue.

"Princess," Qoren finally spoke, breaking the silence. "Do our terms still hold?"

"The terms for House Martell were set by my father," Rhaenyra replied. Her tone was firm, though there was an edge of disdain as her violet eyes bore into the Prince of Sunspear. "You should thank my merciful and generous father for sitting on the Iron Throne, and not my fierce husband. These are the best terms you will ever receive: bend the knee, accept your new borders, provide hostages, and your House shall endure."

Her gaze flicked briefly to Qoren's daughter, Aliandra, before continuing. "My son, Joffrey, will marry Aliandra, binding Sunspear to the Throne. The Reach's grain will be shipped to eastern Dorne through the Prince's Pass and the coast. This alliance will strengthen the bonds between Sunspear and the Crown. I doubt you'll find a better offer."

Prince Daemon sat upon his dragon saddle, a faint smile playing on his lips, yet he remained silent. It was Aemond, his expression still lingering with amusement, who quickly adopted a more somber and dissatisfied demeanor.

"Your mercy is truly like that of the Holy Mother above," Qoren Martell murmured as he bowed his head.

For the first time in a century, the proud Prince of Dorne, scion of the illustrious House Nymeros Martell of Sunspear, removed his crown and knelt before the might of eight dragons.

Plunging his longsword into the dirt before him, Qoren lowered himself to the ground. Behind him knelt the vassals of House Martell, their pride shattered. For them, the war had brought devastation rivaling the original Conquest.

The noble houses of Dorne lay in ruins. House Allyrion of Godsgrace was reduced to a single heir. House Toland of Ghost Hill had only a daughter married into another family. House Vaith of Vaith lost its heir and most of its male members. The lords of House Dalt of Lemonwood were no more, while House Qorgyle of Sandstone and House Uller of Hellholt were wiped from existence, swallowed by the sands of Dorne.

One by one, the lords of Dorne knelt and offered their swords. Pride was a luxury they could no longer afford; what they needed now was rest and bread.

Everyone was exhausted.

Albain Dayne had already yielded, his crown surrendered under the stern command of his sister. He knelt to the Iron Throne's envoy before the dragons had even darkened the skies.

After a century, Dorne had finally returned to the dominion of the Iron Throne.

The Vaelarys swallowed up a part of the fertile land. The entirety of the Prince's Pass, half the Blemmyros Valley, all of the Stone Way, the Crimson Borderlands, and much of the Yronwood Valley were now under the silver dragon's banner.

It would take time to digest such gains.

The dragons departed, their mission accomplished. As they soared away, the vassals of House Vaelarys wasted no time beginning preparations to erect castles and villages on their newly acquired lands.

Conquest may come swiftly, but governance takes generations.