Ice and Fire: Reign of the Dragon.

Chapter 469 The Defenders' War (Part Two) (Two-in-One)

At the turn of day after the "end" of the long night, Aegon was quietly taken away by his sister without any explanation.

But the war has not yet ended.

The White Walkers' army did not completely destroy the castles along the Wall, especially the largest and oldest, Long Night's Keep. Because the Night's Watch and the Kingdom's army behind them had chosen Castle Black as their stronghold, it was fortunate enough to escape the White Walkers' main attack, and the castle was large enough to accommodate a large army.

So this place became the temporary encampment of the army.

The flames in the fireplace cast flickering shadows on the stone walls, as if the spirits of the dead were still watching the struggles of the living. Igor sat in the seat once occupied by the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, his face solemn. The icy blue bloodstains on his Valyrian steel armor had dried, yet still exuded a faint, ominous aura. His voice was deep, yet it carried clearly in the slightly noisy hall:

"The White Walkers have retreated, but they have not vanished. I will personally lead the elite troops north to end this long night once and for all."

Before the words were even finished, the hall erupted in chaos, like boiling oil dripping into water.

Tywin Lannister slowly rose to his feet. The fifteen-year-old boy's figure was not yet fully developed, but he already possessed a breathtaking aura of authority. His gilded breastplate gleamed coldly in the firelight, and the golden lion embroidered on his crimson brocade cloak seemed poised to leap out at any moment, ready to devour its prey.

“Your Highness Igor, the Lannister army is willing to serve as the vanguard.” His voice was smooth yet cold and hard, each syllable sounding precisely calculated, making one feel somewhat uncomfortable yet unable to find any fault with it, leaving one with no choice but to patiently continue listening.

With a snap of his fingers, seven Casterly Rock servants neatly lifted the crimson silk cloth covering the long table. In an instant, the gleam of gold, steel, and obsidian stung everyone's eyes.

The first row displayed a set of heavy knight's armor. Clearly, the breastplate had undergone special treatment; its surface was smooth as a mirror, and the gilded patterns along the edges were luxurious and intricate. Even those who couldn't discern the armor's protective capabilities would be captivated by its opulence. The second row showed a complete set of infantry equipment: a steel longsword with weight-reducing grooves along its spine, an obsidian dagger inlaid in a wooden hilt, and an oak shield edged with tempered steel. Even the simple breastplate and chainmail of the other infantrymen left the lords speechless.

Even after witnessing the luxurious equipment of the Western Knights and the Western Standing Army on the battlefield, seeing it again still evokes both envy and heartache.

Tywin bowed respectfully to Igor, his voice not loud, but enough to make everyone hold their breath.

“Every Western Ranger I brought wears this kind of armor and carries this kind of weapon.” His tone was eerily calm. “My soldiers never wear leather armor, nor do they go into battle wielding crudely made wooden shields. This is the basis of my confidence in making this request to you.”

At the opportune moment, a servant presented a gilded bronze box. The instant the lid was lifted, a blast of cold air rushed out, and the eerie green liquid of wildfire swayed slowly under the protection of the ice.

"As for wildfire reserves, we have plenty too." Tywin's lips curled into a barely perceptible smile. "It's just a little trick to add icing on the cake."

Robert Baratheon suddenly burst into laughter, causing the snow on the beams to fall in a flurry. "What a magnificent lion of the Westerlands!" He gulped down a large cup of ale, the amber liquid dripping down his newly grown beard and onto his armor. "But the North Crusade isn't a beauty pageant!"

Brandon Stark chuckled coldly, holding the ice sword before him. The ripples on the Valyrian steel sword flowed like water in the firelight. "Gilded armor will only hasten your death in the Land of Everwinter, Lion." His grey eyes swept over the equipment displayed in the Westerlands. "Even if the Long Night doesn't end, the temperatures north of the Wall will make you wish you were dead. Remember, when the temperature drops low enough to crack steel, your pretty toys will become coffins."

He surveyed the feudal lords.

"Do you know the true terror of the Land of Eternal Winter?"

Brandon suddenly turned around, his cloak billowing out a gust of cold wind carrying the scent of pine needles. He pointed out the window, where the thick snow left over from the long night still lingered.

“Once you venture deep into the Ghost Forest, even your compass will fail.” His finger traced the air as if drawing an invisible line of death. “Without our guides and Northern warriors familiar with snow marching, you’ll just freeze to death in circles.”

A cold smile curled at the corners of his mouth.

"Just like the reconnaissance team sent out to the valley before."

A glass shattered in the corner of the hall. Jon Arryn, whose name had been called, had a face as dark as the sky before a blizzard, the falcon crest on his chest heaving violently. Three of his most trusted scouts were in that reconnaissance team, and their bodies had yet to be recovered.

"Brandon, my best men died at the hands of the White Walkers. What does that have to do with what you're saying!"

Eddard Stark frowned slightly behind his brother. He saw the Vale Knights grip their sword hilts, saw Robert Baratheon's cynical smile vanish, and saw a calculating glint in Tywin Lannister's emerald eyes.

But Brandon simply sheathed his sword gently, the sound of metal clashing crisp like an ice pick breaking.

“The Northerners remember every crevice in the ice, every undercurrent, and they know the Northern winters well.” His gaze swept over the gleaming armor of the West and the warhammer of the Stormlands. “No matter how thick your steel is, it cannot stop the whispers of the Eternal Winter.”

The flame in the wall lamp suddenly flickered violently, casting Brandon's shadow on the wall, which looked remarkably like a snarling direwolf.

"Little wolf, listen to me."

The Duke of the Valley suppressed his anger and walked up to Igor. He first took out a yellowed parchment map from his robes, his movements slow and almost deliberate. As the leather straps were untied, the scroll made a slight, crisp sound, like some kind of warning.

"Lord Igor, the mobility of the Valley light cavalry is unmatched. The knights of the Valley are peerless."

His voice was unhurried, yet each word carried a heavy weight in everyone's ears. The map was spread out on the table, its dense red crosses resembling congealed blood, outlining a winding road of death leading north.

Robert squinted and leaned closer, his breath reeking of alcohol onto the parchment. Tywin's gaze swept over the markings like a blade. Brandon's fingertips unconsciously traced the hilt of his sword, a flicker of surprise in his grey eyes; these routes were known in greater detail than even the Northerners.

Jon's index finger stopped at the edge of Ghostwood.

"They retreated to the Heart of Winter in three routes." His fingertips traced three dark blue lines. "The central route was the weakest, but..."

The fingernail suddenly jabbed at a skull mark, and the parchment made a slight tearing sound.

"There's a trap here."

The candlelight in the hall flickered suddenly, as if an invisible chill had swept through. Jon took a leather pouch from his waist and poured out a few glistening ice crystals, which rolled on the table but did not melt.

"This is intelligence brought back by the scouts of the Valley and the rangers of the Black-Clad Army, my lord." The Duke of the Valley picked up an ice crystal with two fingers and said with some sadness, "The Ice Mage Lord has buried a spell on both sides of the canyon. Any living thing that passes by will trigger a blizzard wall."

He suddenly looked at Brandon, a mocking smile appearing on his lips: "What do you Northerners call this again?"

Brandon's pupils contracted slightly, but he did not answer Duke Jon's question.

“My scouts found this.” Jon Snow pulled another piece of charred bark from his sleeve, with a crooked arrowhead carved on it. “My good knights tracked a direwolf. They discovered that by following the glacial current, they could circle around behind the blizzard wall.” Tywin Lannister suddenly spoke, his voice unusually wary: “What’s the price?”

Jon Arryn slowly rolled up the map, the leather straps hissing like snakes.

“Death, Lion, 157 went out, and only one returned.” His blue eyes were like a frozen lake. “Now, it is the White Walkers’ turn to pay.”

Igor suddenly raised his Valyrian steel gauntlets, and the hall fell silent instantly. The Dragon King's gaze swept across the faces of every lord, finally settling on Tywin. "The heavy armor of the Westerlands is indeed impressive," he commented expressionlessly, "but the Northern Expedition requires more than just fancy equipment."

Tywin nodded slightly, a glint of shrewdness flashing in his eyes. “The golden lions of Casterly Rock not only roar, but they also know when to bare their fangs.” He turned to Brandon. “Guides from the North, equipment from the West, and scouts from the Vale—that’s the perfect solution.”

Robert slammed his fist on the table, his warhammer clanging loudly. "And what about my warriors of Stormlands? Are we supposed to clean up your mess?"

Chaos erupted once more in the hall as the various lords vied for their opinions. Igor watched all this in silence, saying nothing.

Robert Baratheon's boots slammed heavily onto the long table, the bronze-studded boots causing several gilded goblets to tip over. Amber-colored ale spilled onto Tywin Lannister's meticulously arranged equipment, the liquid spreading like blood flowing on the battlefield.

This young lord of Stormlands, stronger than most of the lords present, now resembled a lion poised to pounce—at least more so than the younger one. A wild fire danced in his eyes, and his thick arm muscles taut beneath his fitted robes, forming sharp lines.

“Pretty things are useless, Lion.” Robert grinned, revealing a less-than-pleasing smile. He casually picked up the gilded breastplate of the Westerlands knight, his knuckles tapping the intricately carved lion motif with a crisp sound. “A jingling sound, more suitable for hanging in a woman’s boudoir.”

A few suppressed snickers echoed in the hall. Tywin's emerald eyes narrowed slightly, but Robert had already turned to face Igor.

"The Northern Expedition isn't about whose armor shines the brightest, it's about whose men are the toughest!" he suddenly roared, drawing his warhammer from his back with his right hand. He displayed to the crowd the warhammer that had slain countless White Walkers.

“Stormlands men grow up rolling in the icy rain; every Stormlands man is a born warrior.” Robert laughed, casually tearing open his collar to reveal a gruesome scar on his chest—a mark left by the claws of the ice spiders and the magic of the Pale Maiden. “When my knights fought the White Walkers, not one dared say he wasn’t at the forefront. Lion, only men like that can serve as vanguards.”

He slung his warhammer over his shoulder and said confidently, "Let me lead the Stormknights as the vanguard, and I guarantee we'll crush those ice shards into dust smaller than Lannister gold dust!"

Eddard Stark watched his sworn brother's performance, a smile unconsciously creeping onto his face. Meanwhile, a calculating glint flashed in Brandon's grey eyes; this seemingly reckless fellow actually possessed a far more astute mind than most people imagined.

As the heir to the Stark family, Brandon was expected to achieve great things by the family, especially given Rickard Stark's relatively less impressive abilities. He roughly understood the intentions of all parties involved.

The southern lords were not a monolithic entity; they were united by the Vareses and Targaryens through their dragons. Ending the Long Night was not merely an honor for them, but also a springboard for future political gains. The North had benefited considerably from the secret alliance with the Vareses, and he needed to ensure these benefits remained firmly in the Stark's hands. Ideally, he should also seize the opportunity to meddle south of the Neck.

Tywin Lannister of the Westerlands and Robert Baratheon of the Stormlands shared his goals. However, unlike the North, the Westerlands and Stormlands lacked close ties with House Varese, which explained Tywin and Robert's eagerness for quick success. The Vale faced a similar situation, but Jon Arryn was not Tywin or Robert. As the Duke of the Vale, Jon couldn't compete and fight for the throne like the other two heirs. He could only rely on Lord Leonor Baratheon for support, using his status as Lord Tytos, a useless figure, to suppress the two younger men.

But there's a high chance we won't be able to outmaneuver those two guys.

Brandon's father, Rickard, lacked the composure and toughness of his grandfather Adler, and the formidable martial prowess of his cousin Astor. However, Rickard was more astute than his father. After the Southern army crossed the Neck, Rickard cultivated close relationships with several Southern lords. He had already associated with Jon Arryn, Duke of the Vale, and Ser Stephen Baratheon, who were of similar age. Eddard had even traveled to the Eyrie to serve as Jon Arryn's squire alongside Robert Baratheon. Therefore, Brandon vaguely knew that Rickard had reached some kind of agreement with the Arryn and Baratheon families.

But these are not important.

No agreement can compare to the interests of the Stark family. Right now, their biggest source of profit is being the first to storm into the Land of Everwinter and cut down the White Walkers.

Before the bells announcing the meeting's recess had even faded, Brandon Stark had already grabbed Eddard's wrist and dragged him into his room. The iron door slammed shut behind them, shutting out the outside noise, leaving only the soft clatter of the hanging sword blade in the cold wind.

“Ned, you’re a kid, and Robert’s sworn brother. He’ll definitely be trying to get you to drink at the dinner tonight,” Brandon said softly. “He won’t be wary of you, so, my dear Ned, get him as much as you can. There’s enough liquor at the dinner tonight to keep him up until noon tomorrow.”

Ed's gray eyes narrowed suddenly. He looked at his brother in disbelief. For a moment, he felt as if his own brother had become a stranger. Even though he was still a little boy, his innate sense of honor and the education he had received made it impossible for him to accept his brother.

"Are you crazy?" Ed stared at his own brother in shock. "That's my sworn brother! Your adopted brother!"

A cold smile curled at the corner of Brandon's mouth. He took a step closer, his sable cloak sweeping across the snow dust piled on the ground.

"It was precisely because he was our godfather that I didn't use my methods."

Ed's eyes widened in terror.

His methods? What exactly is Brandon trying to do? If we don't agree, is this guy planning to poison Robert?
With the seven gods above, is this still his brother?
“That’s why I need you to do it, Ned,” Brandon said with a light laugh. “There’s no danger, just delaying him. By the time he wakes up, the list of those to lead the Northern Expedition will already be finalized. He’ll be safe, and we’ll get what we want.”

"I won't do it!"

Ed abruptly shook his head and decisively rejected his brother's suggestion.

“My father and Lord Jon taught me—”

"Never mind that indecisive old geezer! And don't mention that cunning eagle!" Brandon roared suddenly. His fist slammed into the armor beside him, making a row of longswords clang. Before the echo faded, he quickly lowered his voice, each word seeming to be squeezed out from between his teeth:

“Now I will have the Stark name engraved on the monument that ended the Long Night, and the Stark name below the Dragon Kings, not as a guide for the Southerners! Why do you think Tywin Lannister is showing off those gilded armors? Why do you think Jon Arryn is in such a hurry to mark the map? Why do you think Robert Baratheon is willing to tear apart our relationship to take this vanguard position?”

His finger jabbed into Eddard's chest: "Only those who survive the long night will have the right to write history. What I want is for posterity to remember that it was the people of the North who buried the White Walkers! It was the people of the North who led the charge into the heart of winter! That way, the people of the North will have a greater voice, instead of being trapped in the frozen land north of the Neck."

Ed looked at his brother in silence. In the shadows flickering in the dim candlelight, Brandon's silhouette resembled his stern grandfather Adler and his silent cousin Astor, but nothing like their father Rickard. The burning in those eyes reminded Ed of the ancient legends their old nanny had told them: the direwolves twisted by the land of eternal winter, who would eventually devour the corpses of their own kind.

This is not a legend; on the battlefield, direwolves awakened by the White Walkers do indeed do this, thereby gaining immense power.

Brandon now resembles that terrible thing, retaining only a sliver of conscience, but not much, and willing to do anything to achieve his goals, even abandoning honor. Ed sees this as unacceptable.

“That’s not how you win honor,” Ed finally said, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible.

Brandon stared at his brother for a long time, then suddenly chuckled softly.

"Do you know why that old geezer always says you're like a kid from the South?" He looked at you with a disappointed expression. "Because winter in Winterfell never needs fairy tales. The blood of the Wolves never believes in any bullshit agreements."

(End of this chapter)