Ice and Fire: Reign of the Dragon.

Chapter 481 The War of the Defenders (XIV)

The King's Landing, the Dragon's Lair.

Othris Vareses's fingers had left sweat stains on countless official documents, and the candlestick wax had long since piled up. The cold nights in King's Landing were stifling and frigid, while the temperature in the dragon's lair was rather hot, but this also bred many unpleasant little creatures. People dared not open the windows, for open windows only let in more flies and insects, these disgusting little creatures greedily swarming towards the inkwell, leaving tiny corpses on the open tax ledgers.

"Your Excellency, the supply list for Harrenhal."

"Your Excellency, from the Reach."

"Sir, it belongs to Lord Wang."

The clerks' voices buzzed in his ears. Othris rubbed his temples, where a vein had been throbbing ever since Aegon mentioned his insane plan. Ever since King Igor went north to fight the White Walkers, those old foxes had intensified their efforts to swindle every penny and every sack of grain. His peripheral vision caught an unopened letter on the corner of the table—a report from Hoffa at the front, shelved for days. Since it wasn't anything important, there was no other way but to put it aside for now.

Suddenly, the loud crash of the iron gate being flung open startled the crows into flight. Sir Duncan's figure filled the entire doorway, his white robes stained with night dew, his usually unyielding face now horribly contorted. The tall young man slammed his hand on the table, knocking over the ink bottle.

“You must now,” Duncan gasped hoarsely, as if gripped by an invisible hand, “His Majesty…”

"Don't rush, speak slowly." The Prime Minister put down his pen, a bad feeling rising in his heart.

"His Majesty is in trouble." Duncan's voice seemed to come from a great distance, but it shattered the Prime Minister's psychological defenses almost instantly.

The Prime Minister's fingertips grew cold. He stared at the Kingsguard's face, contorted with grief, and suddenly realized something: Aegon had really done it. He had really done it with a defense that was almost imperfect.

When the Prime Minister and Duncan rushed to the temporary residence, Osiris almost fainted.

Aegon's body leaned against the window, a blunt dagger embedded in his heart. Blood soaked through his velvet nightgown, trickling down the stone walls and pooling into a dark red lake on the ground. His silver hair was disheveled, and his face was serene, almost peaceful, as if he were simply asleep.

Othris's temples throbbed. He crouched down and gently parted Aegon's collar with his fingers. There were no signs of struggle, only rope marks on his wrists, but they weren't from someone else binding him; they were marks he made himself to secure his wrists.

Duncan knelt in the pool of blood, cradling the king's head as if holding a newborn infant. This young man, capable of snapping a boar's neck with one hand, now trembled so much he couldn't unbutton the king's collar. His whimpers reminded Osiris of a warhorse whose lungs had been pierced by a spear.

"I...I should have..." The iron guard's vow shattered between his teeth. "I should have always been on duty. I shouldn't have, I shouldn't have."

“Suicide.” Othiris’s voice sounded like it had been sanded. “Deliberately staged to look like a murder, Dunk Jr. We underestimated Aegon’s resolve.”

Duncan slammed his fist against the wall, cracking the stone bricks. "Why?"

“Because he wanted to make a change.” Otheris slowly stood up, his chest feeling as if it were covered by ice. “He knew that as long as he lived, the nobles would always use him as a bargaining chip, and Varese and the Targaryens would always be provoked. The weak Targaryens couldn’t bear the consequences of being provoked, so he used blood to clean up the deck and paved the way with his life.”

The piercing scream of dawn tore through the night sky, and Daenerys practically stumbled into her chambers. Her nightgown was ripped open with over a dozen bloody gashes by the glass, and her bare feet left crimson footprints on the shattered glass. The moment she saw her brother's corpse, her knees buckled, and she nearly collapsed to her knees. Hoffa's voice, transmitted through the magic crystal, still echoed in her ears:

"Everything will be alright when we come back."

But now, Aegon will never get better.

The pearly white nails dug into her younger brother's shoulder, as if trying to wake him with pain: "You said yesterday you wanted to see me in a wedding dress!"

“How could he…” Daenerys’ fingers trembled as she stroked Aegon’s cold cheek. “How could he abandon me?”

Reigen Vareses was the first to calm down.

He immediately suppressed the news, and fortunately, Duncan did not alert anyone else. Only Duncan, Othris, Daenerys, and Rhaegal were the first to know of Aegon's death.

This gave Ragen enough time.

The Golden King's dragon roar awakened the king. Reigen Vareses had already read the will and summoned the Silverblood Knights of House Vareses. He fiddled with the "evidence" with his gloved fingers, a cold laugh twisting the scars on his face into a centipede shape.

“Homa Staunton, Dennis Darklin, Alfred Rossby, Quentin Tyrell.” With each name he read, a knight rushed out of the room. “Otheris, I want the heads of all the nobles on the list.”

The Prime Minister's answer was to affix the Prime Minister's seal without hesitation.

Ragnaros once again unfurled Aegon's will:

In the name of Aegon IV of House Targaryen, I, King of the Andals, the First Men, and the Rhoynar, Protector of the Realm, Lord of the Iron Throne, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Conquered Lands, High Lord of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh, Ender of the Long Night, hereby declare:
I. My sister Daenerys Targaryen is my sole rightful heir, and the Iron Throne shall be hers.

2. The surnames Targaryen and Varese shall be combined hereafter to form “Targaryen Varese”, and my sister and the descendants of Hoffa Varese shall rule Westeros and all conquered territories under a combined surname.

Third, anyone who obstructs this decree shall be regarded as a traitor and his entire clan shall be executed.

—Aegon Targaryen IV.

At the final signature, dried blood and the Targaryen family seal form the shape of a dragon wing, an ancient death pact of the Dragon King family, meaning that the last wish must be fulfilled with blood and fire.

While King's Landing was engulfed in blood and fire, the situation in the North was quite different.

The cold wind howls in the far north, but at this moment, the heart of winter burns with an unprecedented fervor.

The remains of White Walkers and wights were piled into massive pyres, their eerie blue flames dancing in the snow and ice, intertwining with the human campfires to create a bizarre sea of ​​light. Soldiers tossed captured White Walker ice armor into the fire, listening to the crackling sounds as it shattered in the intense heat, and letting out rough laughter. Barrels were pried open, and ale, wine, Dornish firewine, gin from the Greenwood Isles, and silver from the frontier princes' territories were passed among the crowd. Nobles and commoners sat side by side, dragons and soldiers shared the same cup, as if, in this moment, all class and barriers had been burned away by the flames of victory.

Tywin Lannister, unusually relaxed, plucked the silver strings of his lyre, playing a variation of "The Lion and the Gold." His music was deep and elegant, like cold gold slowly melting in the sunlight. Sebastian Varese's deep harmonies blended into the melody, while Jonial Varese sang an ancient frontier war song in his rich voice, prompting the surrounding soldiers to bang on their tables in response, their rough hands striking the wooden tables with a thunderous rhythm.

In the center of the campfire, Maggie Varese took the hands of her mother, Daenerys Varese, and Queen Adele, and the three danced a lively frontier dance to the beat of the drums. Maggie's silver hair flew in the firelight, like moonlight pouring down, and as she twirled, the towering dragon scales on her back shimmered silver in the firelight. Daenerys's sapphire-blue dress swirled like waves, the tiny crystals on the hem refracting starlight. Adele's steps were still as light as in her youth, her smile gentle and nostalgic, as if she had returned to the happy times she spent with her peers.

Meanwhile, Brandon Stark and Robert Baratheon were locked in combat. Brandon's swordplay was fierce, each strike fueled by suppressed rage. He was still seething with resentment over Robert's pursuit of Lyanna. "Is that all you've got, Baratheon? Damn stag, if you can't even beat me, don't even think about marrying my sister!" he growled, his blade slicing through Robert's shoulder armor, sending sparks flying. Robert laughed as he parried, deliberately holding back even though he could have won with a single blow, letting his future brother-in-law have his fill. "Again!" Brandon roared. Robert blinked, feigning clumsiness as he took two steps back. "As you wish, Lord Stark!"

The duel between "The Fearless" Barristan Selmy and "The Lion King" Hargun Ronder was far more sophisticated. The Frontier Knight's sword flowed like water, each parry precise as a machine, while Hargun's greatsword was powerful and heavy, each strike accompanied by a whistling sound. Their duel had no fancy techniques, only a clash of pure strength and experience, each strike sending up dazzling sparks and drawing cheers from the onlookers.

The duel between Arthur Dayne and Oberyn Martell drew the loudest cheers. Dawn's sword flashed like a cascading galaxy, while Oberyn's twin serpent spears moved with the unpredictable power of a scorpion's sting. Their figures moved so fast they were almost blurry, the clash of swords and spears leaving afterimages in the air. "Faster, you old bastard Martell!" Arthur chuckled, his sword grazing Oberyn's red robes, slicing off a piece of fabric. "You can't keep up, Dayne!" Oberyn retorted, his spear suddenly changing direction, nearly deflecting Arthur's sword.

Hagen Vareses swayed to his feet, raised his glass, and began to recite his "carefully crafted" poem:

"The long night is as black as a crow's ass."

The crowd roared with laughter, glasses and plates clattering on the table. "The White Walkers are dead like mush!" he continued, completely disregarding rhythm, which only drew more laughter from the surrounding soldiers who pounded the tables. Aslan Vareses shook his head helplessly, then picked up the thread, reciting the true epic in his clear voice:
"When the wrath of bronze tears through the eternal night~"

His voice was deep and rumbling like thunder, "Even the stars bow before the dragon's flames~"

The firelight reflected on his resolute face, as if gilding him with a divine glow.

Demion Varese was putting his arm around his nephew Doran Varese's neck and pouring him a drink, the two laughing like peers. "Drink! You little rascal, you're way more manly than your father!" Demion laughed, chugging a whole glass of firewood down Doran's throat. The latter choked, his face turning red, but still stubbornly grabbed the bottle and returned the favor.

Hoffa Vareses sat alone in a corner, the magic crystal in his palm glowing faintly with blue light. His brow was furrowed as he repeatedly adjusted the crystal, but Daenerys remained unresponsive. The sounds of revelry blurred in his ears, while his thoughts drifted back to King's Landing, back to the girl with silver hair and purple eyes.

High above, Igor Vareses sat atop a broken piece of ice debris, with the Bronze Fury Vormisor coiled behind him, his dragon eyes half-closed, occasionally emitting low growls from his throat like the satisfied sighs of a behemoth. Dan Vareses and Valena Vareses sat on either side of him, watching the younger generation revel in their victory. Valena's silver eyes gazed tenderly at the dancing Megi, while Dan stood with his arms crossed, a rare smile playing on his lips.

At this moment, they are the victors, the legends, the living epic.

But fate always seems to strike with lightning at the most joyous moments.

(End of this chapter)