Ice and Fire: Reign of the Dragon.

Chapter 482 The War of the Defenders (Final)
Finally, the magic crystal began to glow faintly.

"Dani!" Hoffa practically lunged at the crystal, his joy in his voice causing Joniel and Maggie, who were nearby, to turn around.

The screen of light revealed Daenerys's pale face. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her long dress was stained with blood.

“Hofa.” Her voice sounded like it had been sanded.

Hofa's smile froze.

"Aegon is dead."

A muffled sob came from the other end of the crystal, and Hoffa's world froze at that moment.

"Who did it?" His voice was terrifyingly low.

“It was him.” Daenerys’ fingers gripped the crystal tightly, her knuckles turning white. “But he left a will saying that the nobles assassinated him and that we should settle accounts with them.”

Hoffa felt as if a dragon's claw had pierced his chest. He slowly raised his head, looking at the jubilant crowd—those who had fought alongside him on the battlefield, those who had just been singing and dancing.
Almost instantly, Hoffa understood what Daenerys hadn't said aloud.

Regardless of how Aegon died, the blame for his death would be placed directly on all the nobles who disobeyed the Dragonflight and plotted in secret. The Vareses, who controlled the kingdom's most powerful military force and elite troops, were far more informed than any noble etiquette or attempts to win over or divide the kingdom.

They will not repeat the mistakes they made during the Blood Dragon Dance and Blackfire Rebellion.

Vareses have already demonstrated generosity no less than that of the conquerors; now, it is time for them to show their fury to the non-Dragon Lord families.

The cold wind howled among the burning piles of Otherworldly corpses, and Vormisor's bronze scales reflected the flames, resembling a moving metal mountain. Jonil Vareses used the tip of his sword to pick up a shard of ice crystal armor, watching it explode into starlight in the campfire.

“Listen to that sound!” Robert Baratheon laughed, raising the barrel of ale and splashing it onto his thick arm. “It sounds better than the Redwyn harp!”

Suddenly, the silver strings of the lyre vibrated under Tywin Lannister's fingers. A rare smile played on the little lion's lips as he played a triumphant variation. Sebastian Vareses' deep voice blended into the melody, adding richness to the music.

"Keep drinking!" Demion Vareses, carrying Dornish firewine, looked at his nephew, who was completely drunk, with some displeasure. In the distance, the crimson-red Shayel spewed poisonous smoke, adding to the revelry.

"Everyone."

Hoffa's voice cleaved through the revelry. Tywin's strings snapped in response.

“News has come from King’s Landing.” He held up the scorching crystal, letting everyone see the tear tracks on Daenerys’s face. “Our king, Aegon Targaryen IV, has been assassinated.”

Jonial's sword flashed, cleaving through the stagnant air. Maggie's silver eyes narrowed sharply. The entire camp fell silent, as if swept by dragonfire, with only the crackling of burning White Walker remains remaining.

"Who did this?" Brandon's roar startled a flock of ravens.

Hoffa's gaze swept across every face. Tywin Lannister's fingers tapped lightly on the hilt of his sword, the rhythm like he was calculating something; Jon Arryn's blue eyes blinked rapidly; Robert's wine glass cracked in his palm, amber liquid mixed with blood dripping down.

“Those nobles who didn’t come to fight,” Hofa heard himself say, “those cowardly opportunists who murdered the king while the north was bleeding.”

Centaur suddenly unleashed a torrent of flames, the dark green dragonfire turning the entire pile of White Walker remains into emerald pillars of fire. Dan Varese stroked the dragon scales; these old men knew very well the significance behind Aegon's death.

An old soldier kicked over a wine barrel, roaring, "We're here freezing our toes, and they're at home murdering the king?" "Blood for blood!" the infantrymen shouted. The knights began striking their shields with their swords, the rhythm gradually becoming a funeral drumbeat.

Igor Vareses slowly rose to his feet. Vormisor's shadow loomed over the entire room. The old dragon king's gaze swept over Tywin's thoughtful face, past Jon's trembling fingers, and stopped at Hoffa's tense jawline.

“Dragon Knight.” Vomisol lazily raised his head, his roar shaking the snow off the treetops. Igor calmly said, “Be prepared. Set off before sunrise. I want to see the traitor’s blood wash over the king’s coffin when the sun is at its zenith.”

The nobles roared in response, and almost simultaneously, they divided the tasks: Robert Baratheon, Brandon Stark, and Tywin Lannister would lead the elite cavalry south at full speed, while the two princes of Dorne would lead the mounted infantry, and the infantry would be under the full command of Lord Hoster Tully and Lord Jon Arryn, who would be responsible for the rearguard action.

As Starsong spread its starlit wings, Hoffa glanced one last time at the burning campfire. In the ashes of the feast, he seemed to see Aegon standing on the high walls of the Red Keep, his blue cloak fluttering in the wind.

Aegon, you madman! How are you going to let Daenerys live? But I will carry out your plan.
“You have lit the fire.” Hofa tightened the reins and whispered to the southern night sky, “Now, let’s burn away the thorns.”

The dragonfire of Starsong pierced the long night, and the dragons rose into the sky one after another. In their shadows, the nobles, who had already seen through the situation, made their decision.

They will side with the victors.

It was the same two hundred years ago.

The same will be true two hundred years from now.

In the shadow of Harrenhal, the shriek of a raven pierced the night sky.

As Rickard Stark's fingers loosened the parchment, it silently fluttered onto the long table. His gaze suddenly turned cold and sharp, his predatory eyes slowly rising to settle on Olenna Tyrell's wrinkled yet still shrewd face.

“Madam,” his voice turned icy, “you just said that if the Stark family agrees to the marriage, the Reach can provide more food rations?”

Olena's fingers paused slightly, the wine glass stopping at her lips. Her eyes narrowed, like an old fox sensing a trap.

Too late.

Rickard suddenly stood up.

The next second, the Northern soldiers lying in ambush in the shadows had already drawn their swords and sealed off Olena's tent.

Lord Adler Stark approached slowly, a cold smile playing on his lips beneath his grey beard. He tilted his head slightly, glancing at Lord Roose Bolton of Dreadfort, who stood in the corner.

“Lord Bolton,” Adler’s voice was devoid of warmth, “please serve the lady her last drink.”

A barely perceptible smile played on Roose Bolton's lips as he pulled a silver cup from his sleeve. The liquid inside shimmered with an eerie purple hue. He walked slowly toward Olenna, his steps as light as a ghost.

“Madam,” his voice was as soft as a lover’s whisper, “traitors never have a good end. I’m sorry, but we need to borrow your head.”

A flicker of anger and terror crossed Olena's eyes, but she quickly sneered. "You too—" She abruptly raised her hand, trying to knock over the poisoned cup, but Roose Bolton was faster. His fingers gripped her chin like iron clamps, and with his other hand, he forcefully poured the poison down her throat.

Olena's pupils contracted sharply, and a hoarse cough escaped her throat. Her fingers scratched her neck, and her skin quickly turned an unnatural purplish-black.

"Rose. Has thorns," she struggled to utter her last few words before collapsing to the ground, her body convulsing violently, before finally falling silent.

“I’m sorry, but the Dragon King has dragons.” Duke Adler Stark mercifully ordered his men to cut off Olenna’s head. They were not in a host-guest relationship with Lady Olenna, so the rights of guests could not bind them.

Prior to this, Duke Mace Tyrell's head had already been hung on the walls of Desolace.

This time, the Tyrell family will be the chicken that gets killed, the chicken that all the nobles who think they can manipulate the world will see.

After realizing something was wrong, Earl William Bartway immediately summoned his confidants.

“Something’s wrong. Something must have happened. The Northerners are being mobilized.” He growled, drawing his longsword. “We can’t just sit here and wait to die!”

His camp was situated on the edge of Harrenhal, where soldiers hastily assembled, horses neighed, and torches flickered in the night. William mounted his horse, ready to give the order to advance.

Then he heard the sound of horns.

That was the clarion call of the Frey family.

“Frey?” William’s expression changed drastically.

The next second, a hail of arrows swarmed from the darkness like locusts, piercing tents and embedding themselves in the soldiers' chests. Warhorses neighed in terror, and the camp was thrown into chaos.

Young Sir Walder Frey emerged slowly from the shadows on a dappled horse, a sinister smile playing on his lips.

“Lord Bartway,” he said slowly, “where are you headed?”

William roared and charged forward on horseback, but the Frey spearmen had already surrounded him. His horse tripped, and he fell heavily to the ground. Before he could get up, a spear had pierced his chest.

“Traitor. Frey,” William coughed up blood, staring intently at Walder.

Walder Frey simply shrugged, pulled out a dagger, and slit his throat.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” Wald said with disgust. “Our loyalty has always been solely to His Majesty the King and His Highness the Prince, nothing more.”

Count Illyrio was more cunning than William. Instead of gathering an army, he took a few trusted men and quietly left the camp under cover of night, attempting to escape back to his conquered territories.

But he underestimated the ruthlessness of the Stark family upon receiving the news.

Rickard Stark had already dispatched light cavalry to block all escape routes.

As Illyrio's horse hooves echoed along the forest path, the sound of bowstrings vibrating came from the darkness.

call out.

An arrow pierced his horse's neck with pinpoint accuracy, and the horse neighed and collapsed, throwing Illyrio into the mud. He struggled to his feet, drew his sword, but the next second, the cavalry had surrounded him.

"You ran pretty fast, Count Traitor." Count Piper breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Illyrio. Luckily they ran fast enough, otherwise losing the credit they had gained would have been a huge loss.

Illyrio knew he had nowhere to run.

"Damn it," he gasped, the tip of his sword trembling slightly, "you think killing us will quell everything?"

Count Piper didn't give him a chance to waste words.

“We don’t need to appease them.” The count’s sword flashed like lightning, piercing Illyrio’s throat. “We just need to make sure all the traitors are dead.”

Ragnaros stood on the walls of the Red Keep, looking down at the lights of King's Landing.

Behind him, men in gold robes were kicking down the doors of noble mansions, house by house. Every name on the list was crossed out—the Rossby family, the Staunton family, the Darklin family.
On the streets of the wealthy district, blood flowed like streams as nobles were dragged to Ragnaros's side and beheaded, their heads hanging from the spears of the Red Keep.

"Please! We are innocent!" one of the counts cried, clutching Ragen's boots. The Golden King's rider simply waved his hand, and the next second, the count's head rolled to the side and was hung on a spear.

The Archbishop's chapel doors were locked. When Dennis Darklin desperately pounded on the chapel doors, he was met with death; a fanatical priest slit his throat and presented his head to Reigen.

A few survivors fled to the other side of the Blackwater River, attempting to raise the flag of rebellion.

But before they could even organize a defense, flames had already broken out on the northern horizon. Reyers and Dawn had already taken to the skies to fight before the northern dragons could march south.

Dragonfire destroyed the resistance in King's Landing.

Next, the castles of nobles considered rebels were engulfed in flames and then ravaged by the enraged army.

This war, later known as the "War of the Defenders," began so brutally and ended so hastily that people seemed to genuinely believe that the monarch who rode a dragon to defend against the White Walkers in the Long Night, and who should have become a wise king, died because of the intrigue of the nobles. As a result, people cheered for the eradication of the enemy, which should have been condemned.

Of course, there were also countless knights and minor nobles who participated in the Battle of the Long Night and received land and titles after the war. The Varese family generously distributed the territories of the nobles who were wiped out.

These people wished Vareses would be even more ruthless.

Thus, this war, which was highly controversial in later historical records, not only did not lead to any bad consequences, but instead became the cornerstone of the century of peace that followed.

A new era has begun.

(End of this chapter)