Ice and Fire: Reign of the Dragon.

Chapter 474 The War of the Defenders (Part 7)
Long Night Fortress was a battlefield where frontline troops engaged in deception and treachery.

Harrenhal, on the other hand, was a playground for nobles who were neither brave enough nor close enough to the royal family and the Vareses. The lords who stayed behind were equally powerful. Lord Leonor Baratheon, the Duke of Stormlands, led six thousand Stormlands soldiers to control these hapless and addicted men, providing a stable rear for the front-line troops.

However, accidents always happen unexpectedly.

The candlelight flickered in the cold wind, casting the hunched figure of Duke Leonor Baratheon onto the stone wall. Harrenhal was as silent as a tomb in the dead of night, save for the crackling of the wood burning in the fireplace and the rustling of the old duke turning the pages of parchment.

The battle report came from the northern front, the ink still fresh.

"Ser Stephen Baratheon died a heroic death in battle. His son Robert led the Stormtroopers in a charge, personally slaying several White Walkers, including at least one Pale Woman who was casting a spell, tearing an opening in the army."

Leonor's fingers trembled slightly. His aged face was first contorted with grief over the loss of his son, then relaxed as he saw his grandson's achievements.

"Good lad. As expected of the Son of the Storm." He murmured to himself, a satisfied smile curving his lips.

But at this moment, something unexpected happened.

A sharp pain suddenly pierced his chest, like a dagger through his heart, instantly crushing the elderly but renownedly brave Duke of Stormland.

Leonor gripped the battle report tightly, his knuckles turning white. He wanted to shout, but it felt as if an invisible hand was choking him, and he could only manage a faint whisper.

"Bachelor's degree."

The candlelight flickered in his increasingly blurred vision, and the battle report slipped from his fingers and drifted to the ground.

thump.

His forehead slammed heavily on the table, and he fell silent.

It wasn't until dawn that the servants noticed something was wrong.

"Your Grace?" The young servant knocked softly on the door, but there was no answer.

When he pushed open the door, Leonor was still hunched over his desk, as if he were merely asleep. But his ashen face and stiff body foreshadowed an ominous sign.

"Seven levels of hell! Scholar, scholar! Save the Duke!"

The servants' screams awakened the entire castle.

When the maesters arrived, the stag of the Stormlands was already stiff. Acting Chief Maester Paisell opened the duke's eyelids, carefully inquired about the duke's symptoms, and sighed: "The duke's heart could not bear his valor, child. The duke's blood was too hot, melting his blood vessels and causing his heart to suddenly stop beating." The squire looked at the maester with a blank expression.

"Prepare for the Duke's funeral, child." The maester patted the squire on the shoulder. "Don't keep the Duke waiting too long."

Leonor Baratheon is dead.

Thus, Lord Tytos Lannister, who had been driven out by his son, was hastily invited to take charge, but the Lord of the Westerlands had long since lost his dignity and his mind through years of wine, women, and absurdity.

"What...what should we do?" He rubbed his ruby-encrusted ring, his voice weak. "Should we wait for orders from Dragon's Nest?"

As expected, Tethos was unable to control the situation, and the garrison at Harrenhal immediately fell into chaos.

The soldiers of Stormlands were demoralized by the sudden death of their commander. Even with the efforts of Earl Tars and Earl Grandson to maintain order, the remaining troops in Stormlands were still in considerable disarray. Some young men even led their troops northward without obeying orders.

The Reach forces were also thrown into chaos, with nobles loyal to House Tyrell and the Tyrell army beginning to coordinate their movements. Lord Rowan was overwhelmed and unable to keep up with the situation. If it weren't for the help of Lord Florence, Lord Mariewes, and Lord Bisbury of the Frontier Princes, he probably wouldn't have been able to suppress these troublemakers at all.

Rumors even circulated in the castle that "House Baratheon is cursed!"

The nobles who remained gathered in the small council chamber like vultures smelling carrion.

"My lords, Harrenhal needs a new commander." Earl Harvard stroked his beard. "According to His Majesty and the Prime Minister's decision, the Governor of Stormlands will act as the Lord of Harrenhal and oversee the garrison. Now that Lord Brynden has died in battle, Harrenhal has lost its lord. Therefore, the acting Lord of Stormlands is the true commander, and it should be succeeded by young Robert, but he is still at the front."

This statement sounds convoluted, but it's actually not difficult to understand. King Reg I and Prime Minister Otheris clearly designated Leonor Baratheon, the Grand Marshal of Stormlands, as the acting Lord of Harrenhal, commanding the garrison. Therefore, regardless of what happens, as long as the Grand Marshal of Stormlands remains, and without even a specific designation, the Baratheon family can take over command in due course.

Whether someone is competent or not is another matter entirely.

Count Fossow chuckled: "Perhaps a regent should be appointed?"

Their probing was interrupted by a cold laugh. Twelve-year-old Stannis Baratheon stood in the doorway, coldly cutting off their attempts to probe him.

“My brother will return.” His voice was young but exceptionally firm. “Until then, anyone who dares to touch the seal of Stormlands will taste the wrath of Baratheon.” The nobles dispersed with smirks, but the calculating glint in their eyes remained.

What truly kept the ambitious ones inactive was the dragon of Dragon's Nest.

Whenever someone looks up at the sky, they are reminded of Petyr Baelish being burned alive by Vormisor's dragonfire. The image of that always-smiling, thin man screaming and writhing in the flames remains a taboo subject among the nobles. The fate of House Tyrell also terrifies the lords: Olenna was imprisoned in her tent, the Duke of Mace was politely escorted to Desolace, and the Golden Rose of Highgarden was trampled into mud by iron hooves.

Beneath the dragon's flames, there is no place for conspiracy to hide.

But some people are never satisfied.

For example, Lady Olena, who was imprisoned.

The silvery moonlight filtered through the gaps in the tent, etching cold streaks on the stone ground. Lady Olena sat upright on the edge of the narrow bed, her fingertips twirling a dried rose—the last of her Highgarden roses.

Outside the door, the sound of iron boots pounding the ground rang out precisely on time.

Click—tap—click—tap—

The guards' patrols were like knots on a noose, so regular they were suffocating.

Olena applied slight pressure with her fingertips, and the remaining rose petals shattered into dust.

"lady."

The maid, Mela, bowed her head and placed the wooden plate on Olenna's lap with the usual respect. But as her fingertips left the bottom of the plate, a piece of parchment as thin as a cicada's wing quietly slipped into Old Rose's palm.

Olena remained expressionless, picking up the earthenware bowl and sipping the bland broth, while her other hand unfurled a note in the shadows: "The raven has been released; awaiting a reply."

A barely perceptible smile played on her lips as she crumpled the paper and sprinkled it into the soup. The specially made parchment dissolved upon contact with water, obliterating the writing as if it had never existed.

King's Landing, the Red Keep.

In the shadows of Raven Tower, Varys's bald head gleamed like pearls in the moonlight. He had just "coincidentally" passed by the maesters' council chamber and "inadvertently" overheard their discussions of recent news, including the three-headed dragon hatched at Dragon's Nest, Aegon's rejection of his request, and the selection of the vanguard and main force for the Northern Expedition.

“Ah, the brave little prince,” he murmured, his fingertips tracing the back feathers of a raven, “just like his father, isn’t he?”

The scholars nodded in agreement, completely unaware of the deeper meaning behind the statement.

Back in his secret chamber, Varys held Olenna's secret letter close to the candlelight. The curled, charred edges of the parchment resembled Petyr Baelish, licked by dragonfire.

“Balance,” he whispered to the flickering flames. “The kingdom after the long night needs balance, and balance.”

His quill lightly sketched two names on the pamphlet: Aegon Targaryen, House Vareses.

"A young, unruly male monarch is needed."

Also receiving a letter from Olena was Count Illyrio, a high-ranking nobleman in the conquered lands. He had been a vassal of the Bohr family, and after the Bohr family's downfall, he became a vassal of the Osgre family. Although the Mopatis family had always aspired to become independent rulers, it seemed that neither the royal family nor the Vareses family had such intentions.

Illyrio Mopatis stood before the fireplace, the firelight casting his bulky figure distorted like a monstrous beast onto the tapestry. Embroidered on the tapestry was the checkered lion, the coat of arms of Duke Eustace Osgre, symbolizing the conquered lands' loyalty to the royal family.

“Loyalty?” Illyrio scoffed, pulling Olena’s secret letter from the veil’s tucked compartment, and read it aloud once more:
"The kingdom will never have our power."

These words, like the fangs of a viper, pierced his ambitions.

“It’s time for the Targaryens,” he whispered to the secret letter, “to remember who their true friends are.”

He clapped his hands, and a servant dressed in Rhys silk appeared silently.

"Prepare the ravens," Illyrio said. "The loyalists must serve the Targaryens."

The last person to receive Old Rose's secret letter was Earl William of the Bartway family. The Earl stood before his grandfather's portrait, lost in thought. In the painting, Ambrose Bartway was clad in heavy armor, but the sword at his waist was only half drawn, just like his stance during the Blackfire Rebellion—indecisive yet miraculously surviving.

“You saved your territory, but lost your future.” William sneered at the portrait. “This time, I will not repeat the same mistake.”

He unfolded Olenna's secret letter, his fingertips tracing the words "Aegon is the last male heir of the royal family," a resolute glint in his eyes.

(End of this chapter)