Ice and Fire: Reign of the Dragon.

Chapter 392 Red Grassland: The End of Black Fire
The wind from the prairie brought scorched earth and blood, blowing away the remaining heat of the dragon flame, but it could not blow away the silence on the battlefield.

The soldiers stood among the corpses, looking up at the sky. The dragon war was over, but the survivors didn't know whether to cheer or pray. They had seen swords clashing and arrows raining down, but they had never seen dragons tear each other's throats, nor heard the wailing of dragons before they died - the Dance with the Dragons had ended for more than half a century, and even the gray-bearded veterans in the North had never seen the last dragon war.

"Gods have mercy..." A knight from the River Bay knelt on the ground with a seven-pointed star drawn on his chest. A Blackfire Rebels arrow was still stuck on his shield, but his eyes were fixed on the still smoking dragon corpse in the distance. Korakshu's head was almost smashed, one leg was torn off, and the slender neck was broken. The black dragon bone penetrated the dragon's flesh and blood, and the hot dragon blood was still flowing slowly on the dragon bone. The scarlet scales were scattered like blood-colored petals.

“That wasn’t a battle,” whispered an old soldier from the North, stroking the hilt with his rough fingers. “That was… a massacre between monsters.”

Rickon Stark leaned on his icy sword, his fur cloak rustling in the wind. His eyes swept across the battlefield and finally landed on Cendroth. The dark green dragon was licking the blood on its wings, its movements as graceful as a cat, yet with a chilling calmness.

"Is that thing really a dragon? It has killed four dragons already." Lord Bolton whispered beside him, his voice like a venomous snake sliding over dead leaves, hoarse, yet as light as a kitten running across a silk carpet.

“Yes,” Rankin said curtly. “And it’s on our side, which is all.”

Not far away, Quentin Blackwood's younger brother was directing soldiers to collect his brother's body. He glanced at the smoking battlefield from time to time, as if he could still see the moment when Osther Bracken and Quentin Blackwood died.

"At least revenge is served," he murmured, running his fingers over the broken string of the double-curved longbow.

Lord Harford Frey sat on a rock, his mace across his knees. His helmet was dented, but compared to the death of Other Bracken on the battlefield, this injury was nothing. He looked at the captured Blackfyre rebels in the distance and suddenly sneered: "Daemon is dead, but his lackeys are still alive."

"Only temporarily." The White Knight Galwyn Corbray wiped the blade of the Empty Lady's sword, his white robe already dyed dark red, "The King will judge them."

Igor carefully slid down from the rope on Wormisol's back, and Bronze Fury lay on the ground with some fatigue. It had entered the old age of a dragon nowadays, and would be exhausted if it moved a little. Catching up with and severely injuring Korakshu was already a huge physical burden for an old dragon of this age. Igor patted the fingertips of its wings and whispered, "Take a rest, old friend."

The old dragon purred comfortably.

Dan Varese stood beside Sendroth, his fingers gently stroking the leaf-like scales on the dragon's neck. The dark green monster purred, as if satisfied, but also as a warning. Several servants who wanted to get closer immediately retreated - no one dared to easily approach the beast that had just torn two dragons apart and finally shot down Korakshu.

"You should find a mate for it." Orion walked up to Dan with a smile and said half-jokingly.

Dan smiled and said, "I'm afraid it will eat its mate."

"You're so boring." Orion smiled and stopped talking.

Baelor stood silently beside the fire, and the gray-white tentacle dragon gently rubbed his head against him. "Should Have Been King" looked at Korakshu's body with a complicated expression. He wanted to give Damon a chance to negotiate, but fate did not give him a choice.

"Your Highness, Baelor, you have done your best." Brynden walked up to him, blood still seeping from his newly bandaged eyes. "When you showed up, Daemon should have realized that he had completely lost all his chances."

Baylor shook his head: "No, I don't, and I don't have that ability."

"Should Have Been the King" sighed tiredly: "Foolishness comes from ambition and reckless gambling. At this time, no one can persuade the gambler. Unless His Highness Longzel is alive."

As they were talking, the reserve troops that had been cleaning up the battlefield slowly returned, bringing with them captives and spoils of war, as well as the arrogant Count Ambrose Butterwell.

The captives were chained together, kneeling on the scorched earth. Many of them had been knights, lords, proud supporters of the Blackfyre. Now, they were just defeated dogs.

"Korak is dead..." a soldier from the Bracken family murmured, his eyes empty, "His Majesty Daemon is also dead..."

"Shut up!" A mercenary kicked him viciously. "Master Aegor is still alive! Master Trystane is still alive! This war is not over yet-"

He was not able to finish his words when Lord Ambrose Butterwell struck him in the face with the butt of his spear, and his teeth flew out with blood.

"The war is over." said the chameleon coldly with his stomach full of milk.

The peaty figure of the sheep thief passed through the clouds, and Aegor lay on the dragon's back, cursing and urging his mount to go faster.

His nose was still bleeding, and his armor was covered with sword and scorch marks. Korax was dead, Daemon was dead, Aegris and Jade Orinth were dead, and the entire Blackfyre Rebellion evaporated like morning dew under the scorching sun. Now, he wanted nothing more than to flee—to the conquests, to Volantis, to a place where no dragon could find him.

However, he is not the only dragon in the sky.

Sayaer's figure slid out of the clouds like a ghost. Although this rouge-colored "jawless" dragon was not as big as the sheep thief, its slender body and purple-red scales looked particularly desperate under the flashing blood-red sunlight. Damion Vareses did not shout or warn, but just gently pulled the dragon rope, and Sayaer opened its wide dragon mouth, and light surged between its hard shell.

What it spewed out was not ordinary dragon flame, but a sticky fireball with a strange rouge luster, accompanied by a strange rouge-red smoke.

Iger felt something was wrong instantly.

No, why hasn't this dragon appeared on the battlefield?

The sheep thief instinctively dodged sideways, but the poisonous fire twisted and spread in the air like a living thing, and a few drops of splashing carmine flames stained its wing membrane. In an instant, pungent white smoke came out of the peat-colored dragon wings, and the membrane wings, which were far less tough than dragon scales, melted like wax. The sheep thief let out a painful roar, and his flight trajectory suddenly skewed.

"Damn you little brat!" Iger cursed. He could sense that there was something wrong with the smoke, and hurriedly covered his mouth and nose. He pulled the dragon rope, looking for an opportunity to break through Shayel's blockade.

He understood why the dragon did not appear on the battlefield.

It is suitable for making mortals die twisted in pain and corrosion, and for making the rider perish before the dragon in a single fight. But in group combat, the uncontrollable poisonous smoke does not care who is the teammate and who is the opponent.

Sayael did not fight head-on, but moved like a poisonous snake in the desert, forcing the sheep thief to dodge in panic with every spit. The sheep thief had to protect himself and the rider on his back. Its scales could resist the erosion of poisonous fire and smoke, but Iger could not. Iger knew that if he was hit head-on, the sheep thief might only be slightly injured, and he himself would definitely not be able to survive.

Just as he was trying to find a breakthrough, the sky suddenly darkened.

(End of this chapter)