Ice and Fire: Reign of the Dragon.

Chapter 454 Game of Thrones.
The Great Wall is still quite sturdy; thousands of years of magical accumulation have allowed it to stand, although several sections have become too difficult for mortals to stand on due to the influence of ice magic.

The cold wind before dawn swirled with ashes, hovering atop the Great Wall.

The sheep thief's carcass burned in dragonfire all night long; scales and flesh had long since turned to ash, leaving only a massive skeleton faintly visible in the firelight. Mekka Targaryen's body lay between the old dragon's breasts, the Blackfire Sword held horizontally before him, its blade reflecting the flickering flames, as if still yearning for battle.

“Let’s begin,” King Reg I said in a low, hoarse voice.

Dan Vareses was the first to step forward, and Centaurus's tail hammer slammed heavily onto the sheep thief's skull, the sound of the dragon bones shattering like distant thunder. Jonil and Lusris ordered Sunbeam and Moondance to tear open the dragon bones of the torso, while Demion's Shayel spewed poisonous fire, trying to leave not a single piece of flesh behind.

The dragon bones will not be left to the White Walkers, nor will they remain in this land already corrupted by ice magic. Every piece of dragon bone will be transported south and forged in Dragon's Nest into weapons to fight against the Long Night.

Ray sat beside Shadow Nightmare, his withered fingers stroking the jagged black dragon's head. The intense combat had nearly destroyed the last vestige of strength in the old man's body, but he still refused to be sent to the rear.

"Grand Uncle." Just as the old man stubbornly refused to go south, Jonial kept urging Ray to return: "The hot springs of Dragon's Nest City can soothe your—"

"Shut up." Ray's purple eyes remained sharp. "I'd rather die on the battlefield. Just take pity on this old man who doesn't have much time left."

He coughed violently, silvery blood seeping from between his fingers. He had survived until now thanks to the things left in his body from his time in the ruins of Valyria. But even the great magical empire at its peak could not withstand the magical erosion when the Song of Ice and Fire was played, so naturally, the things in his body could not either.

Therefore, the old man's only wish was to die in this apocalyptic battle and fulfill the mission of the three brothers.

As the last dragon bone was dismantled, Lady Valena soared into the sky on her silver wings. The elegant silver dragon breathed out pure flames, reducing the last traces of Mecca and the sheep thief to ashes.

Amidst the flames, Mecca's face appeared serene, as if she had finally been freed from pain and responsibility.

“Valar morghulis,” Reg said softly.

“Valar dohaeris!” all the dragon riders responded in unison.

The ashes drifted southward on the wind.

The departure of the dragon knights caused a slight disturbance in the slowly advancing southern army.

Petyr Baelish gently lifted the tent flap, moonlight casting dappled shadows on his gaunt face. Inside the Duke of the Vale's tent, the flickering light of an oil lamp cast a long, slender shadow of Jon Arryn as he wiped his breastplate.

This gaunt young man, hailing from the Fingers, was a capable and talented youth. His grandfather had once owned a large tract of land in the Conquerors, but during Aegon III's reign, the lenient land annexation policies led to his grandfather being forced to relinquish his lands and return in disgrace to his humble knightly estate. In the Blackfyre Rebellion of his later years, the Baelish family, though not on the wrong side, gained nothing. He grew up in poverty until a daring adventure caught the attention of Artis Arryn, "The Falcon." Through the young man's bold yet cautious maneuvering, he successfully gained the trust of both Artis Arryn and Jon Arryn, the heir to the Vale.

“My lord.” Petyr’s voice was soft and pleasant, making it hard to feel any ill will towards him.

Lord Jon Snow didn't even look up, continuing to adjust his armor. "Baelish," the young duke's voice was cold and sharp, carrying the characteristic arrogance of House Arryn, "coming so late, you'd better have something important to discuss. If it's about provisions or money, you can handle that yourself."

Petyr took a step forward, his boot sinking silently into the thick wolfskin carpet. “News has come from Bronze Gate,” he said, deliberately lowering his voice, “that Prince Aegon is in danger. Several lords have been discussing it today, and I hear Lord Aegon and Lord Brynden were also talking about it.”

The breastplate clanged dully in Jon's hands. The Lord of the Vale finally raised his head, his hawk-like blue eyes sharp as knives in the candlelight. "Explain yourself. What do you mean by 'dangerous'?"

“The Bucklers are, after all, just minor nobles of the Stormlands,” Petyr sighed, shaking his head. “Whether the White Walkers breach the Wall or not, whether the Long Night truly falls, my lord, as long as the Iron Throne stands, the Targaryens remain the undisputed kings.” He paused at just the right moment. “My lord, His Highness the Prince needs true protection.”

He took another step forward, the hem of his cloak sweeping across the map on the ground. "I am willing to personally lead the elite of Eyrie to bring the last bloodline of the kingdom to a safe valley, or a place approved by the royal family and House Vareses, and properly protect it."

Lord Jon Snow suddenly laughed, a laugh that made the flame of the oil lamp flicker. “When have you ever been so loyal to the Targaryens?” he asked, slowly rising to his feet. “Tell me your reasons,”

Petyr's lips curved into a perfect smile, neither overly obsequious nor frivolous. "My lord," he said, "this is not merely loyalty. You must also acknowledge that the Vale is not the most powerful of the Nine Kingdoms. House Stark is allied with House Varrezes, who are also great dragons. Martell and Dayne are vassals of Varrezes. As long as Varrezes exist, these three houses will have no shortage of opportunities to enter the Central. The Lannisters are wealthy, the Tyrells are bountiful, the Tullys are adept at navigating the complexities of power, and the Baratheons are no different. They can abandon their dignity for status, but the noble Arryn cannot." His voice was barely audible, yet it pierced the ear like the tongue of a viper. "Long-term isolation from the Central will inevitably lead to the gradual exclusion of House Arryn and the Vale nobles, my lord. This is an excellent opportunity. Protecting the royal bloodline will do us no harm."

Jon Arryn stared at Baelish for a long time.

It wasn't until Petyr felt a slight unease that the Duke slowly spoke.

"Stop playing tricks and put away your ambitions, Baelish."

He sat down again. The plan was indeed not bad, if Baelish didn't have his own agenda.

“I don’t want to see you on the Marquis of Bloodraven’s execution list, Baelish. I admire you, and I hope you’ll behave yourself.”

“I will comply with your wishes completely.” Petyr breathed a quiet sigh of relief; the Duke meant that he had accepted his opinion.

He finally had the opportunity to put his plan into action.

"absurd!"

Duke Eustace Osgre slammed his fist on the oak table, and mead splashed from the golden goblet, leaving dark stains on Petyr's robe embroidered with the moccasin emblem. The old duke's white beard trembled with rage, resembling that of an enraged goat.

"The White Walkers are practically gnawing their way to the Wall." His voice boomed, making the tent rattle. "And what kind of bullshit Game of Thrones are you still plotting? Get out! Adam, throw him out!"

The heir of the Checkered Lions approached with a cold expression, but was stopped by Earl Blackwood. He gestured with his chin, indicating that Adam Osgrey should consult the Duke of Riverrun.

Horst Tully remained silent. The Duke of the Riverlands simply stared at Petyr with his cold, fish-like eyes, then gestured towards the outside of the tent.

The Duke's brother, the knight Brynden, known as "Blackfish," lifted Petyr by the back of his collar like a chick; the thin, high-ranking official of the Vale couldn't even touch the ground with his toes. His silver-buckled belt tightened painfully around his ribs, but the smile on his face remained unchanged.

“Now I know why I call you Littlefinger.” Duke Tully sneered as he watched his brother lift him into the air, his voice more chilling than the icy waters of the Trident River. “Because you deserve to live in the cracks between the fingers of the real players. I warn you, playing these tricks when you’re not playing the game of power will only backfire.”

When Petyr was thrown into the manure pile, his cloak spread out elegantly, much like the hem of a noblewoman's skirt. The stench of manure instantly soaked through his silk shirt, but he maintained a composed smile and even had the leisure to tidy his disheveled hair.

He nodded slightly to the girl in the corner of the tent, seemingly thanking her for introducing him to him, which made the girl blush shyly.

"Thank you for your hospitality, gentlemen." He slowly stood up, took out a silk handkerchief embroidered with a mockingbird from his robes, and gently wiped his cheek. "I believe we will meet again soon, gentlemen. Protecting the prince is our duty."

In the shadows of the distance, a blood-red eye took in everything. Blood Raven's raven silently flapped its wings and flew towards the center of the camp.

After being thwarted in the Riverlands and the Conquerlands, Petyr chose to camp in Dorne.

Doran Martell gently stroked the crystal bottle, the liquid inside shimmering with an eerie color in the candlelight.

"Pour it into that bottle of Summer Red," he whispered to the sommelier, his voice as soft as snake scales grazing the sand, "the one my dear father brought from Sunspear City."

The boy trembled as he took the bottle of "Stranger," his Adam's apple bobbing: "Your Highness...are you really going to do this?"

Doran's lips curled slightly upward, but his obsidian eyes held no smile. "Father said to teach him a lesson. A cunning fellow who thinks he can become a clown among the players. Allowing him into our tent is an insult to us." The waiter trembled, sensing the coldness and murderous intent in Prince Doran's voice. "But if he really is poisoned—" He paused, as if pondering a trivial matter, "then it will be considered ridding the kingdom of a scourge."

The waiter swallowed hard and carefully dripped the venom into the deep red wine. Tiny bubbles rose as the liquids mingled, then returned to calm, as if nothing had happened.

Dorne's feasts have always been lavish, and even on the march, Oberyn and Arthur would comfort the Dorne warriors with fine wine and food.

Prince Oberyn reclined on the cushions, the insignia of his spear piercing the sun gleaming coldly in the candlelight. His gaze lazily swept over the lords at the table, finally settling on Petyr Baelish, the minor nobleman from the Vale, who was scrutinizing each person with his cat-like, shrewd eyes.

“Lord Baelish,” Oberyn raised his glass, a dangerous smile playing on his lips, “would you like a taste of Dorne’s Summer Red?”

Petyr smiled and raised his glass. "Please forgive my caution, Your Highness," he said softly. "In times of chaos, even fine wine can conceal deadly dangers."

He did not drink the glass of red wine.

The room fell silent instantly.

"It seems the fine wine Martell prepared couldn't move our lord, who's trying to become the prince's protector," Prince Arthur Dayne said sarcastically. "Unfortunately, our knight's son isn't a good knight. Otherwise, I'd much rather have a hearty duel between men, wouldn't you say, Oberyn?"

Oberyn's smile remained unchanged, but the temperature in his eyes turned utterly cold. "What a pity," he sighed, tilting his head back to drain his cup. "It seems this wine is indeed not pure enough. Get out of here, and don't pollute my tent with your ambition and folly." Petyr smiled and raised his cup. "To your generosity, Your Highness."

Their gazes clashed in mid-air, and Petyr was forced to concede defeat.

His choice seemed unwise, but he also knew that none of these nobles would report him, because on the one hand, they were unwilling to admit that they had met him, and on the other hand, his lobbying was actually quite legitimate.

Aside from the fact that this opinion should not have been raised by him.

Tytus Lannister's tent was more extravagant than the king's palace; the lion-patterned curtains embroidered with gold thread shimmered in the candlelight, and even the wine glasses were gilded.

Petyr squinted as soon as he stepped into the tent, blinded by the dazzling luxury. He had dealt with the lion of the West quite a bit—mostly with gold—and Tytus enjoyed his compliments.

This is also what Petit believes to be an excellent breakthrough point.

Placing Aegon Targary under the protection of one's own family is not a bad thing for any family.

Of course, Petyr had more to think about.

For example, Prince Aegon needs a mentor.

Petyr hoped it was himself, and he was confident he could handle the matter while Prince Aegon was within the sphere of influence of the family he had lobbied.

“Lord Lannister,” he bowed slightly, his voice smooth as silk, “regarding Prince Aegon—”

“Ah! Baelish!” Tethos waved drunkenly, interrupting him. “You’ve come at the perfect time! I’ve just acquired a batch of the finest silver wine, supposedly brewed when Lord Longzel was still alive. The Seven Hells, ah, that cost me a fortune.”

Petyr smiled, about to continue his persuasion, when Tytus suddenly leaned closer, his breath reeking of alcohol in his face: "You say... Prince Aegon would be more friendly to us?"

“Indeed, my lord,” Petyr said in a low voice, “as long as we bring him back to King's Landing, the royal family will…”

"boom!"

The gilded wine jug grazed Petyr's ear and slammed against a tent post, splashing wine all over him.

From the shadows, a blond boy slowly stepped out, his hand already resting on the hilt of his sword.

“Father,” Tywin Lannister’s voice was eerily calm, “do you need me to take care of the rubbish?”

The boy slowly walked to his father's side, whose engine had clearly stalled, and looked at Petyr expressionlessly.

Petyr's smile froze on his face.

He was thrown out of the golden tent by Count Marbran and Count Kreh like trash.

There are a few more.
Petyr had not given up hope; he did not believe that in the chaos of the approaching Long Night, no one had yet harbored unwarranted ambitions.

The Tyrells' tent was a mobile garden, with floral-patterned silks swaying gently in the breeze. Lady Olenna sat in the main seat, her sharp eyes half-hidden by a feather fan.

Olenna was the wife of the former Lord of Highgarden, Ross Tyrell. After Lord Leo Tyrell, the Tyrell family's succession finally stabilized, but Ross Tyrell was still short-lived.

But at least he left behind an adult son.

As a daughter of House Redwyn, Olenna was not particularly outstanding. Her family had indeed enjoyed a period of glory after Elsa Redwyn became Lady of the Magon Targaryen, but after Elsa's two sons sided with the defeated in the Blackfyre Rebellion, causing the Magon line to decline, House Redwyn completely sided with House Varese.

Olena had always hoped to bring about a different kind of change for her family. This was information Petyr had obtained with money.

“Lord Baelish,” her voice was like honey wrapped in razor blades. After listening to Petyr’s persuasion, the de facto ruler of Highgarden was somewhat surprised, but not unexpected, “I never imagined that you would still be playing the game of power when the Long Night is coming.”

Petyr smiled: "Madam, the darker the times, the more we need to plan ahead."

Olenna chuckled softly, then abruptly closed her fan, pressing the ribs against Petyr's throat. "A wise man should know," her voice suddenly turned icy, "that roses bloom only in their proper season."

A slight flapping of wings came from the top of the tent, and a bloodshot-eyed crow tilted its head to watch all of this.

Olenna's gaze shifted slightly upwards, then she withdrew her fan, her smile returning to its amiable form. "And now," she said softly, "is the Long Night, Lord Baelish."

The crow flew back to Brinden's shoulder.

He stood in Vomisor's burrow, having just finished cleaning Bloodeye's scales. Igor, with his back to him, was also cleaning Vomisor's scales—though his workload was, of course, many times greater than Brinden's.

"Are you sure?" The Dragon Nest City Lord's voice was deep and thunderous.

Bloodraven did not answer, but instead took out a scroll of parchment from his robes. It was densely covered with Petyr Baelish's secrets, every meeting, and every hint.

“He thought his scheme was going very well,” Brynden sneered. “But he forgot the nature of the game of power.”

Igor paused for a moment, then smiled and nodded: "Tomorrow at dawn."

Before the morning mist had even dissipated, the lords were summoned to Vomisol's dwelling by the sound of horns, where the old dragon, as large as a mountain range, was snoring and slowly waking up.

Petyr Baelish was being escorted by two Kingsguard guards, his silver-embroidered robes stained with mud, and his usually smiling face was now ashen. He struggled to lift his head and saw Brynden and Igor standing on the platform, watching him coldly.

“Treason.” Blood Raven’s voice wasn’t loud, but it pierced everyone’s eardrums like a blade.

Petyr's lips trembled: "My lord, this is a mistake—"

He glanced at the lords pleadingly. The two princes of Dorne watched his disgraceful state with amusement. Lord Tytos Lannister kept his head down, not daring to look at him. Lord Leonor Baratheon and Lord Corin Greyjoy looked puzzled. Lord Hoster Tully and Lord Eustace Osgrey glared at him with schadenfreude.

His benefactor, Jon Arryn, looked at him with a regretful expression.

He could see the girl who admired him crying in the crowd, the girl he admired holding his sister's arm, looking at him with a puzzled expression.

Vomisol's roar interrupted him.

The bronze-colored dragon lazily opened its mouth, the heat scorching everyone's skin. Igor stood beside the dragon, proclaiming the judgment.

“Petty Baelish.” Igor looked at Petyr with a smile as well. “You wield lies as your sword and intrigue as your arrow, plotting division even at a time when humanity is on the verge of extinction. Today, dragonfire will cleanse you of your sins.”

Petyr finally broke down: "No! Your Highness! I did it for the kingdom! I did it for—"

Vormisor's dragonfire erupted.

It wasn't an instantaneous death, but a slow, precise burning. Igor had Vomisor control the intensity of the dragonfire, which spread upwards like a living thing, starting from his toes. Petyr's screams were heart-wrenching; his flesh curled and charred under the intense heat, and his bones gradually carbonized in the flames.

The princes stood frozen in place, none daring to move or speak. Lady Olena's fan slipped from her fingers and fell to the snow with a dull thud.

No one remembers how long the screams lasted.

All I remember is that after everyone was disgusted by that heart-wrenching scream, Petyr's screams finally dissipated into the world with the last wisp of smoke.

It was as if this person had never existed.

(End of this chapter)