Ice and Fire: Reign of the Dragon.

Chapter 468 The War of the Defenders (Part 1)

Winterfell.

A cold wind swept across the pale branches of the heart tree, scattering the accumulated snow. Igor stood before the newly erected monument, his Valyrian steel armor gleaming coldly in the dim morning light. His fingers slowly traced each name engraved on the stone: Meka, Ray, Little Valar, Seneol, Gelin, Brinden.
Every name is a wound, etched on the stone tablet and in the hearts of the living.

“We have won this battle, for now.” Igor’s voice was low and deep, like an undercurrent beneath the frozen ground, only audible to the dragon knights standing closest to him. He raised his eyes, looking towards the lingering dark clouds in the north and the still pale sun: “But the long night is not over.”

He turned around, and Vormisor's enormous shadow fell upon them. The oldest bronze dragon of the time bowed its head, its eyes reflecting the image of its companion, as if mourning its fallen comrade.

Igor's gaze slowly swept over each weary yet resolute face. Dan Varese looked at Igor with approval. He had witnessed ancient legends during his long journey and knew that the Long Night would not end so easily. If they thought everything was over simply because they had repelled the White Walkers' attack, then the Long Night would soon return. Valena Varese's silver hair was wrapped in blood-stained bandages. The old woman calmly watched Igor and the children. As one of the few remaining second-generation members of House Varese, she had witnessed the family's glory and sacrifice, and understood even more the importance of eliminating any threat. Jonial's right hand was clenched into a fist, his eyes burning with the flames of vengeance. And Aslan, Demion, Othris… every surviving dragon rider bore wounds, yet their eyes burned with the same determination.

“The remnants of the White Walkers must be completely wiped out.” Igor’s voice remained calm, but everyone could feel his suppressed rage, which echoed through the Godwood Forest, startling a few ravens: “Otherwise, in ten years, a hundred years, when people have forgotten the horrors of today, when the number of dragon riders has dwindled again, when the legends of the Long Night have become children’s fairy tales, they will eventually return.”

“Igor is right,” Dan’s aged voice rang out. “The Lizardmen’s alliance with us is that they will be responsible for destroying the White Walkers’ hatcheries. This is a lesson learned from the last Long Night. Gentlemen, it will take time for the White Walkers to rebuild their hatcheries, and that time will be the best time for us to end the Long Night.”

He glanced around at his juniors and said firmly, "This time, we will pursue them into the Land of Eternal Winter, find their source, and eradicate them completely!"

His response was a dragon's roar. Vomisol, Sendralos, Silverwing, Sunbeam... all the surviving dragons roared to the sky at the same time, their dragon flames piercing the pale and cold dawn mist, as if making a vow to their fallen comrades.

Among the blood-red leaves of the Heart Tree, one can vaguely see the branches, etched with ancient faces, trembling slightly, as if the ancient gods were also witnessing this moment of vows.

"I want to go with you!"

The roar shattered the solemnity of the memorial. Aegon Targaryen pushed his way through the crowd. The young prince's purple eyes burned with resentment, and his pale face bore unhealed abrasions. His dragon-riding skills were poor; on the battlefield, he could only keep himself from falling, and all his achievements relied heavily on the power of his Dreamfire.

Old Dragon is very experienced, but he hasn't been in many dragon battles, so Dreamfire prefers to stay far away and rush in to finish off the opponent when their defeat is inevitable.

This greatly frustrated the last male Targaryen.

Igor's gaze was cold and hard: "Your battlefield is in the south, not in the land of eternal winter, child."

"Why?" Aegon's clenched fist trembled slightly. "My father died at the Wall, his grudge—"

“It is precisely because your father is dead,” Igor suddenly raised his voice, his tone unusually stern, “that you must live, child. Do not forget your identity; you are the last male descendant of the Targaryen family.”

Igor stepped forward and placed his hand on Aegon's shoulder: "Mekka, Brynden, and Gaelin risked their lives not to give you the right to die, but to give you the responsibility of protecting the kingdom! When the Long Night ends, you will be the King of the Iron Throne, and the kingdom needs you."

Aegon's lips trembled as he tried to argue, but Hoffa grabbed his shoulder. The heir of House Vareses shook his head slightly at him. "Your Highness," Hoffa's voice was deliberately raised, making it exceptionally clear to Aegon, "Lord Hargen's wound has reopened, and he says he only wants to see you."

Aegon frowned, his silver-gold hair tied back at the nape of his neck, brushing against the collar of his armor as he turned. "Now? I just got back from him."

"Our dear heir to the Iron Throne wouldn't hurt his good friend, would he?"

This carefully crafted provocation was as precise as a fishhook. Aegon's purple eyes narrowed sharply, and he immediately strode towards the tent. Behind him, Hoffa gestured to the tall figure in the shadows.

The tent was filled with the scent of mint and poppy milk. Duncan was clumsily organizing his medicine chest with his back to the tent door, looking like a bear trying on boots for the first time.

"Where is Hagen?" Aegon looked around the empty tent and suddenly became alert.

"careful!"

Duncan turned around in a "panic," his elbow "coincidentally" knocking over a celadon bottle on the shelf. The bottle shattered at Aegon's feet, the amber liquid splashing onto the prince's boots. A strong, sweet scent instantly filled the tent—the essence of Nightsleeping Flower mixed with honey, a drug capable of incapacitating even giants. Duncan, however, had already taken a potent stimulant.

It might prevent him from falling asleep so quickly.

"What are you doing—" Aegon's question was abruptly cut short. His vision suddenly shifted, and he saw Duncan's large, fan-like hand reaching out towards him.

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness.” Duncan caught the limp boy, his movements as gentle as if he were cradling a crystal statue. In his broad arms, Aegon’s pale face resembled that of a sleeping child, his eyelashes trembling slightly in the shadows cast by the firelight. “We cannot afford any more risks.”

The tent flap was lifted by a hand wearing a silver ring. Daenerys Targaryen stood backlit, the newly tamed dragon "Dawn" howling in the distance. As she knelt beside her brother, her long, silver-gold hair enveloped them both like a cloak woven from moonlight.

“He will grow up.” She gently kissed Aegon’s forehead. “When he wakes up, he will understand that this is for his own good. Taming dragons to fight is his capital to win over the lords, but if he cannot return unscathed, what does that capital mean?”

Maeghi lifted Aegon's eyelids to examine his pupils, the firelight dancing on her ring: "The dosage is just enough to reach Dragon's Nest." She turned to Ragnaros, "The potion will neutralize the poison, but it will cause nightmares for a few days."

Raigen suddenly grabbed Duncan's wrist: "Kid, what if he wakes up and hates you?"

“Then hate it.” Duncan gave a bright smile.

(End of this chapter)