Ice and Fire: Reign of the Dragon.

Chapter 477 The War of the Defenders (Part 10)
King's Landing, Red Keep Courtyard.

The shadow of the three-headed dragon swept across Aegon Highlands, and the entire city trembled.

Dreamfire was the first to descend. Aegon Targaryen dismounted, his silver-gold braids billowing in the wind. His purple eyes swept over the kneeling nobles, his gaze lingering for a moment on a few trembling figures.

"Get up." His voice was soft, yet it made everyone tense.

Daenerys' Dawn followed closely behind, the pink dragon, as radiant as the morning sun, letting out a clear, resonant roar. The princess leaped gracefully down and stood beside Aegon.

Ragnaros the Golden King finally landed, the heavy steps of the golden dragon causing the ground to tremble slightly. When he unfastened his saddle, the nobles in unison shrank back halfway—they knew all too well the power of House Varese; as long as the Varese were alive, they were dogs.

A dog that can only beg for food from the unbreakable alliance of the Silver Dragons and the Red Dragons.

"Welcome, Prince Aegon!" Lord Rossby shouted, his forehead pressed against the stone bricks.

“It is Your Majesty,” Ragnaros calmly corrected. “Reg I has passed away, and Aegon is the sole rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”

A few suppressed gasps came from the crowd.

Just then, Lei Geng looked up and smiled with satisfaction.

It seems the north is really fast; they've only just arrived, and Osiris has already arrived as well.

The slum dwellers of Flea Nest were the first to spot the green dragon. Reyers flew low over the slum rooftops, the wind whipped up by his wingtips scattering rags drying in the sun. Otheris, perched on the dragon's back, squinted, scanning every dark alley like a falcon surveying its territory.

"Keep a close eye on those guys." Before leaving, Igor instructed him: "The nobles of the Royal Territory are weak, but they are keen on intrigue. The nobles of King's Landing are cowardly, but they are not lacking in the courage to overturn the table. Bran's death has caused us to lose part of his intelligence network. If I'm not mistaken, that part of the intelligence network may have problems, so don't trust the information transmitted by that part of the intelligence network as easily as before."

When the green dragon landed on the Red Keep, Othris landed right beside the nobles. He strode through the crowd, his scales still covered in ice crystals from the high altitude, and the nobles scattered like startled rabbits.

“Your Majesty, by the order of Prince Igor Vareses, Osiris Vareses pays his respects to Your Majesty.”

Aegon nodded emphatically: "Thank you for your hard work, my Hand of the King."

Without hesitation, he showed the nobles his affection and dependence on Osiris, and a few white knights gathered around him.

"Duncan, come here."

A tall young man emerged from the corner, his coarse cloth clothes standing out starkly against the backdrop of brocade. His black hair stood on end in a messy, unruly manner, as if he had just been dragged from the training grounds—actually, it was the wind blowing it; he and Aegon had arrived on the Dreamfire together and hadn't had time to change or wash off the dust.

"Kneel down," Lei Geng whispered.

When Duncan's knee struck the ground, it made a dull thud. When Aegon drew his longsword and pointed it at Duncan's shoulder, this burly man who could take down a knight with one hand trembled like a leaf in the wind.

"In the name of warriors, I command you to be brave." The sword slashed across his left shoulder.

"In the name of the Father, I command you to be just." The sword moved to the right shoulder.

"In the name of the Holy Mother, I command you to protect the innocent."

Duncan's Adam's apple bobbed, and as the white robe draped over his broad shoulders, a tear fell onto the tip of Aegon's boot.

"His Majesty."

Aegon suddenly leaned down and said in a voice only the two of them could hear, "Dunk, I need protection. My sisters can't be with me every moment. Only you. Please."

"I will not fail in my mission, Your Majesty," Duncan solemnly swore.

The turmoil brought by the dragon was quickly overwhelmed by the complex daily affairs of King's Landing.

Varys's fingers gently brushed across the stone wall of the secret passage in the Red Keep's kitchen, his fingertips touching the familiar crack where a parchment, rolled into a thin tube, should have been hidden, recording the undercurrents that had been brewing in King's Landing.

But today, the crack is empty.

“Something’s not right,” he murmured, his bald brow furrowing slightly. The cuff of his purple robe brushed against the damp stone wall without making a sound. Varys stood on the high gallery of the Red Keep, moonlight casting dappled shadows on his smooth face through the stained glass. His long fingers gently traced the secret letter hidden in his sleeve, his eyes reflecting the frequent movements of the golden-robed guards in the courtyard below. “Brand new golden robes. Strange, I don’t recall Prime Minister Othris making such a mobilization.” He murmured to himself, his silken voice almost inaudible in the empty corridor. The elite guards who should have been stationed at the Dragon’s Lair were now marching in orderly ranks toward Flea’s Nest. It had been unusually quiet there recently, even the usual pickpocketing had decreased significantly.

He turned and walked toward the council chamber, his soft-soled shoes making no sound on the carpet. As he passed the guardhouse, his peripheral vision caught the newly updated patrol roster on the wall; this was the seventh adjustment. Varys remembered the source of each revision: some were personally ordered by Othris, who strengthened the defenses of the dragon's lair since Aegon now resided there, and also increased surveillance and patrols of the streets frequented by nobles; others were adjustments made due to petitions from nobles and manpower shortages.

As the assistant to Lord Bloodraven, Varys, though a low-profile eunuch, did not learn nothing from the Lord. He sensed something was amiss, and although he allied himself with those ambitious men, his original intention was to reclaim the throne for Aegon.

He has a clear conscience.

So, faced with a plot that could threaten Aegon, Varys made a decision.

The next morning, Varys went to the royal kitchen as usual. Lysa, the maid who always placed candied fruit as a secret signal on the plates, was nowhere to be seen. He asked her casually, and the plump cook replied without looking up, "That little slut? She was transferred to clean the toilets yesterday."

Varys's heart sank. He remembered the last time he saw Lysa, the girl's trembling fingers arranging candied plums, the pits delicately removed, leaving only fine, hair-like knife marks on the flesh. That was a coded message left by the Marquis of Brynden, meaning there was a problem with the location of the mole.

He hadn't had time to resolve this yet, after all, he wasn't the Marquis of Brynden; his only advantage was his proximity to the palace.

Night falls.

Under the moonlight, Varys stood at the entrance to the secret passage, a shriveled plum clutched in his hand. The cloying sweetness had long since dissipated, leaving only a few specks of sugar frosting clinging to his fingertips. He knew that beneath the city's seemingly calm surface, undercurrents were gathering into a whirlpool. And at the center of that whirlpool lay the young prince in the dragon's lair.

The "Old Eel" tavern never serves eel dishes. This lame joke has circulated in King's Landing's underworld for many years, with only a very few knowing its deeper meaning. This is an intelligence outpost of Bloodraven Brynden, and the skinned eel image on the signboard is actually a coded communication code.

As Varys descended the creaking stairs into the cellar, his right hand remained on his hip. He'd picked up this habit from Brynden, who had taught him, "You can only trust your knife, boy," the Marquis of Bloodraven had once instructed him, his withered fingers holding a poisoned dagger tucked into his waistband.

The cellar was filled with the mingled smells of ale and mildew. Varys's gaze swept over the ever-burning oil lamp in the corner; the wick had been moved, and the flame was half an inch higher than usual.

"Sir." The bartender behind the counter looked up, a fawning smile on his face. It wasn't Old Tom, but a burly, unfamiliar man with knuckles so thick they looked more like an executioner than a bartender.

Varys smiled as he sat down at the bar, his silk sleeves brushing against the wooden countertop.

"The usual?" The bartender pushed over a glass of Summer Red with silver trim.

"Where did old Tom go?" Varys asked casually, his fingers lightly tracing the rim of his glass.

"He went back to his hometown." The bartender's smile remained unchanged. "Before he left, he said that you loved drinking this barrel of wine the most."

A lie. Old Tom didn't have a hometown at all. Varys raised his glass, paused for a moment, and saw the bartender's pupils contract slightly and his Adam's apple bob unnaturally.

Who exactly destroyed the intelligence station left behind by Blood Raven? Vareses? Or someone else?

He was just an insignificant eunuch with only rudimentary knowledge. He couldn't immediately identify the type of poison like his predecessors, nor could he escape alone. In fact, once he realized that the place had changed hands, it would be difficult for him to get out.

"For the kingdom," he murmured to himself, tilting his head back to drink it all.

The moment the liquid slid down his throat, Varys knew he had made a mistake. The poison wasn't as potent as he'd imagined, but it was still a poison without an antidote. It wasn't some high-end concoction; in fact, he'd never encountered such a crude poison before. Based on that, it couldn't be from the Vareses family. So there was only one answer: his so-called allies.

Having realized what was happening, Varys maintained his perfect smile and even licked his lips: "Indeed, fine wine."

The bartender's smile became genuine: "I'm glad you like it." But when he saw that Varys didn't collapse immediately, the bartender's eyes changed, but he quickly regained his composure.

They never trusted this loyal ally.

Varys' knees buckled slightly as he stood up, but he concealed it perfectly. The moment he pushed open the tavern door, the winter night's chill sent a shiver down his spine, or perhaps the poison was beginning to take effect.

In the shadows of Silk Street, four "beggars" were slowly closing in on their target. Beneath their tattered robes, brand-new black leather boots were visible—the standard equipment of the officers in gold robes, only deliberately covered in mud for disguise.

Varys touched the dagger Brynden had left him at his waist and suddenly felt like laughing. His teacher was right, always leave yourself a way out. Unfortunately, this time, his way out was also drowned by the poisoned wine, or rather, he cut it off himself.

"For the kingdom," the burly men in tattered robes said as they plunged daggers into his abdomen and slit his throat with short swords.

(End of this chapter)