Ice and Fire: Reign of the Dragon.

Chapter 471 The War of the Defenders (Part 4)
Just as Robert was still wondering what his emotions were, the curtain was suddenly lifted, and the stuffy air in the room seemed to be dispelled by a clear north wind, instantly becoming much fresher.

“My grandfather heard that Lord Hofa took you away, so he sent me to deliver some hangover soup,” the girl’s voice was like freshly melted snow, pure and untainted, “but it seems that he doesn’t need me much now.”

Lyanna Stark stood in the doorway, her black hair cascading over her shoulders like raven feathers, making her grey eyes appear even brighter, like cold stars. In her hands she held a white glazed ceramic bowl, from which the steaming medicine rose, carrying the crispness of mint and the warmth of honey, sweeping away the lingering stench of alcohol in the room.

Robert Baratheon froze. His eyes widened, and his lips parted slightly, as if struck in the chest by a warhammer.

“The seven levels of hell,” he murmured, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible.

Brandon immediately noticed his sister's furrowed brow, a sign that her anger was about to erupt. He instinctively prepared to explain—or rather, to offer a pretext—but Lyanna didn't even glance at them, heading straight for Ed, whose eyes were red-rimmed, in the corner.

“Don’t cry, little wolf.” She knelt down to wipe away her brother’s tears, a few glistening drops on her fingertips. “The stag and the direwolf should be allies, shouldn’t they? Don’t be sad about your brother’s recklessness, my dear Ned.”

Robert Baratheon's world seemed to be cleaved in two by a bolt of lightning.

He had been clenching his fists, his veins throbbing with rage, his mind filled with Brandon Stark's arrogant face. But the next second, all sound, all emotion, vanished.

He saw her.

Like a wild horse from the North, proud and free.

It is as gentle as the most beautiful rose in winter.

She stood at the doorway, and when she first appeared, her hair was as black as night and her skin as white as snow, stunning Robert for a fleeting moment.

Despite having slept with many beautiful girls.

Although there were quite a few girls who were prettier than the girl in front of her.

His heart pounded in his chest, as if struck by a warhammer, so violently that he almost forgot to breathe.

Seven levels of hell.
He had never seen a girl like this before.

The noble ladies of Storm's End are always delicate and fragile, like roses in a greenhouse, easily broken. But the girl before me is different. Her brows carry the sharpness unique to the North, and her back is ramrod straight, as if no amount of wind or snow could bend her.

As she approached Ed, her movements were as light as a lynx's shadow on a snowfield. When she reached out to wipe her brother's tears, Robert noticed her long, strong fingers, with thin calluses at the knuckles from sword practice.

She can also use a sword?
This realization made his heart skip a beat again.

When she turned around and her grey eyes swept over him, Robert felt his throat tighten. He had seen countless beauties, but none could make him freeze like this with just a glance, like a greenhorn holding a sword for the first time.

Damn it, what am I spacing out for?

But his body reacted faster than his mind. By the time he realized what was happening, he was already kneeling on one knee, holding up the hem of her dress.

“Beautiful lady,” he said in a voice so low it was almost unrecognizable, “please allow me, uh, to reintroduce myself.”

He had never been so clumsy in his life. He had never been intimidated by thousands of troops in the martial arts tournament, but now, he had almost forgotten his own name.

Her gaze fell on his face, carrying a hint of inquiry, a hint of amusement, and a hint of emotion he couldn't decipher.

Is she smiling?

That faint, almost imperceptible curve made his blood boil.

As she placed the hangover soup in his hands, his fingertips accidentally touched her skin—icy cold, yet it set him ablaze. Robert knelt there, holding the bowl like a devout believer holding holy water.

I want to marry her.

This thought swept through his reason like wildfire. Not out of political marriage, not out of family interests, but because he had never been so certain of anything in his life.

Hoffa covered her face, her icy blue eyes peeking out from between her fingers with a helpless glint. Brandon's expression was as if he had swallowed a whole lemon, even his signature sword scar was contorted. Ed, on the other hand, completely forgot to cry, staring blankly at his usually gruff and loud foster brother, who was now as gentle as a bard.

Lyanna looked down at the young man kneeling before her. His dark brown curly hair was still stained with ale, and his armor was covered with dents from battle, but his eyes shone with an astonishing light, like a starry sky suddenly reflected in a stormy sea.

“Your hangover soup is getting cold, Lord Baratheon,” she finally said, placing the earthenware bowl in his hand that was holding his robe, a barely perceptible smile curving her lips. “I hope it will cure your strange manners.”

As she disappeared behind the curtain, the room was so quiet you could hear the crackling of the embers. Robert remained kneeling, holding the bowl of soup like a fool.

"I'm going to marry her," he announced suddenly, his voice as firm as a battering ram. "Brandon, I'm going to marry her!"

Brandon's sword clattered three inches from its sheath. Hoffa immediately grabbed his wrist: "You can't beat him."

“I can poison him, sir,” Roose Bolton, who had somehow regained consciousness, suggested with a sinister grin.

Ed suddenly burst into laughter through his tears. Outside the window, the last rays of twilight pierced through the icicles and fell directly on the bowl of hangover soup. Robert swore he saw the rising steam forming a tiny rose shape.

At this moment, in Aegon's bedroom in Dragon's Nest.

Aegon Targaryen sat bolt upright in bed, a fine layer of cold sweat beading on his forehead. His throat was dry as if he had swallowed a handful of sand, and his temples throbbed as if someone were hammering his skull.

"What happened?" he asked hoarsely, his violet eyes searching for answers in the dim room.

The room was empty, save for the shadow of the dragon that had swept past the window, cast on the stone wall. He struggled to his feet, his legs weak, and he nearly collapsed. Fragments of memories surged through his mind: the final battle at Winterfell, his father's sacrifice, and Duncan.
"Dunk! You betrayed me!" he growled through gritted teeth, slamming his fist on the bedpost.

Just then, the door was suddenly pushed open.

Daenerys Targaryen stood in the doorway, her long, silver-gold hair disheveled over her shoulders, her violet eyes gleaming with an unprecedented light. She didn't even notice Aegon had awakened, and simply said hastily:
"Quick! Greenhouse, dragon eggs! Them!"

"What dragon egg?" Aegon frowned. "Daenerys, I need to ask you that."

It has hatched.

The word struck him like lightning. Aegon's anger vanished instantly, replaced by a near-dizzying shock.

"The dragon egg has hatched!!!"

Daenerys nodded, her cheeks flushed with excitement: "Just now! The dragon eggs of Torchfire, Dawn, and Silverwing all cracked open at the same time!"

Aegon didn't even have time to put on his coat before he followed his sister barefoot into the greenhouse.

This is because this is the first time a dragon egg has hatched since the long night began, or more precisely, since winter began.

This is also the first time in recent years that a dragon egg from House Targaryen has hatched.

(End of this chapter)