Ice and Fire: Reign of the Dragon.

Chapter 401 Warm time

The sea breeze in Lys is always sweet, stained with the smoke from the brothel incense burners and the aroma of mead from the brewery. Lady Rohanne wrapped in a crimson cloak, her fingers tightly grasped the shoulders of her two sons. Little Aemon and Little Aegon have learned to look at everyone who approaches with vigilant eyes. Young Aemon Blackfyre I held his younger brother, the cute boy was still sleeping in his cradle, unaware of how many eyes were coveting him.

"We're here," Aegor - or rather, the Faceless Man in Aegor's skin - said softly. His voice was like silk.

They stood in front of a mansion covered with vines, with the arms of the Rogar family carved on the lintel. But the arms were faded, and weeds were growing in the cracks of the stone, just like the power of this family, which was slowly rotting in the dark alleys of Lys.

"Is this safe?" Rohanne whispered, her nails digging into Aemon's flesh.

Aegor smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Safer than any place you could imagine, my lady."

Beside them, there was no Simon, only Harold Hightower who looked tired.

The last dragon chaser was found dead in his cabin three days ago, and Harold Hightower diagnosed his death as "heart palpitations caused by a sudden cold", all due to the salty and humid sea breeze of the passing winter.

Everyone felt sorry that Simon left them at the most critical moment.

But who cares?
The political situation in Rees is like a glass of Rees sweet wine mixed with fish eyeballs, belladonna juice, water of night shadows, Pretty in Pink, and Tears of Rees. It is sweet and chaotic, but there is still a deadly order.

Paying taxes to the Iron Throne is the bottom line for all the wealthy merchants and nobles who try to tear at the corpse of the Rogar family. Apart from that, they care about nothing. The foundation left by the great Lysandra to his descendants finally collapsed. The carrion crows divided up the corpses left by the dictator's family and ate them to their heart's content in the feast of the destruction of Volantis.

No one noticed the arrival and settlement of the Blackfyre remnants.

This is indeed a safe place.

The black fire subsided and peace returned to the land of Westeros. The king and the prime minister were busy healing their wounds. Winter was about to pass, and the following short spring would be a good time to resume production. Before that, the hungry people must be fed and the wounds left by this war must be healed.

Baylor is suited for this kind of thing.

The dusk of the Redmeadow—the great meadow that had been called that after the dragon fight and the battle—was like a blood-soaked wool blanket over the charred fences and new wheat. As Baelor Targaryen pulled in the reins, the twelve tentacles of the Kindling stretched out behind him, their gray scales catching the last of the daylight like floating ghostly ribbons.

The first to come was the bold girl, one of the spoils that Baelor had taken from the mercenaries, walking barefoot through the mud, holding in her arms a misshapen dragon made of wildflowers and straw, with a laurel leaf for Varese crookedly stuck in its head.

Beile jumped off the dragon and saw people spontaneously coming out of the village to greet him.

Their faces were all rosy, proving that at least they had enough to eat.

“Master Long!” She pronounced “Long” as “Rong” and held up the gift with her muddy hands. “Mammy said this can drive away nightmares!”

Beile knelt on one knee to accept the gift, the hem of his gray robe soaked in the wet mud. People invited the humble prince to enter their simple pleasure place - this was a party prepared by the poor for the prince.

The old monk by the campfire played a new ballad on his lute:

"The silver dragon dances with the red dragon!
Blackfire's bloody sword broke in the mud.

The twin trees blessed by the seven gods.

One tree bears fruit, and another provides shade..."

The rescued girls lowered their heads and knitted wool blankets, the pattern of which was the silhouette of Storm Cloud and Womisoor intertwined. A girl with shackle scars on her wrists suddenly spoke up: "Prime Minister... Will the Prime Minister and His Majesty the King really read the thank-you letters we wrote?"

Baylor looked to the south, where a caravan loaded with wheat from the frontier was rolling through the starlight. "They will." He paused for a moment. "So I'm here to visit you on their behalf."

The crowd laughed in good faith. Everyone knew that the King's seal and the Prime Minister's coat of arms always appeared together on the relief order. They could not see the Prime Minister and the King who were high above them.

But they saw the prince returning.

that's enough.

Late at night, the fire was lingering on the threshing floor, its tentacles gently tapping the ground like a living thing. Beile leaned against the dragon's warm belly and listened to the old shepherd's chatter:

"When the Black Fire people burned the granary, they said, 'The master has fought well, and the untouchables can have enough to eat.'" The old man took out the black bread from the south, which was so hard that it could only be cut with a saw. "But now even the most remote villages know which piece of bread comes from the Red Fort, which bag of flour has a silver dragon and bay leaf, and which order for conscription has a green dragon or black dragon on it."

Baelor stroked the dragon doll the little girl gave him. He suddenly remembered that when Lady Daenerys inspected Leaf Lake Castle, a peasant woman secretly handed her baby to the Silver Dragon Knight to check for rashes. How ridiculous, these people have instinctively regarded dragons as a more reliable protection than maesters.

I don’t know whether it is a good thing or not.

Unlike Beile who was running around, the dragon riders of the Vareses family returned to their respective garrisons one after another. The war was over, and Vareses returned to peace.

The greenhouse garden in Dragon's Nest was steaming with hot and humid mist. The glass dome filtered the scorching sun at noon into a hazy golden veil, covering the exotic plants transplanted from Essos. Jonnell Stark curled up among the tangled roots of the dragon fruit tree, his brown hair stuck to his forehead by sweat, and the tears in his gray eyes stubbornly refused to fall. His nails dug deep into his palms - there were still blisters from yesterday's training, which were the marks left by his repeated practice of riding equipment binding in the dragon field.

A shadow fell over him. Jonniel looked up and saw Uncle Igor's greaves before him, still stained with the sulfur dust from the dragon's lair.

"My little Joniel, what's the matter?"

"They said I would never ride a dragon." His voice was choked in his throat. "They said the blood of brown-haired Varese was not hot enough. Compared with silver-haired Varese, it was like mud and gold."

When Igor squatted down, the dragon skin armor creaked slightly. He did not rush to comfort him, but took off a leather bag from his waist and poured the dark red wine on the soil beside Jonniel.

The bloody wine seeped into the soil, washing the gravel into a gleaming mess.

"It is now more valuable than gold." Igor reached out and lifted his nephew's chin. "Do you know why?"

Jonniel shook his head blankly, and a tear finally fell into the mud mixed with blood wine that was as expensive as gold.

"Because dragons don't care what the soil is." His uncle's thumb rubbed across his cheekbone, leaving a trail of bronze dragon dung ash. "They only care if there's fire in it. Jacaerys the First was brown-haired, too, my boy. His doubters called him Strong in private, but no one could deny that when he rode Vermax, he was a Targaryen."

Igor paused. "These are your great-grandfather's exact words. Your great-grandmother was a honey-haired Tully, and Aunt Serena was also a honey-haired one, but no one has ever dared to question Sarafathers's dragon flame."

"So, tell me, who said that?" His voice was calmer than the north wind in winter.

Jonnir sniffed. "Lusris and Céneol and Aslan. Adele just laughed, but Maege—" His voice suddenly became sharp when he mentioned his sister, as if he had been betrayed. "—Maege said maybe I should go back to Winterfell and raise wolves." The stone walls of the armory were hung with Valyrian steel weapons that had been brought out of the ruins of Valyria and captured from the battlefield. Under the light, they rippled like fish scales. The laughter of the children who were imitating dragon battles with blunt swords and brooms stopped abruptly—Igor's figure blocked the door, and his silhouette in the backlight was like a giant dragon transformed into a human form.

"stand at attention."

The five children were like rabbits frightened by the dragon's might. The wooden sword in the hand of fourteen-year-old Luthris fell to the ground, and the boy who had just boasted that he could ride on Moon Dancer dared not move. Twelve-year-old Seneoer subconsciously hid behind his sister Adele and cousin Maggie, but ended up stepping on the broom handle that acted as the dragon's tail and fell flat on his butt.

Igor walked slowly, his steel boots rolling over the wooden sword on the ground, and sawdust flew. He stopped in front of Aslan - a boy of the same age as Jonil, who was holding the blunt training sword tightly, his knuckles white.

"Swing the sword." Igor ordered.

Aslan raised his sword tremblingly, but before he could get ready, Igor grabbed the weapon with one hand. Igor weighed the blunt sword and suddenly attacked!
"boom!"

The blade brushed past Lusiris's ear and smashed into the stone wall, sparks flying everywhere. Several young men froze in place, and a strand of silver hair slowly fell.

"This is what you did to your people." Igor's voice was colder than the edge of the sword. "It's not about leaving wounds on the enemy." He pulled out the sword embedded in the stone crevice, "It's about chiseling cracks in the foundation of the dragon clan. Tell me, who told you to say that to your brothers?"

The children were terrified.

"Igor, that's not what we meant." Aslan said weakly, raising his hand.

"Aslan, don't make excuses, cousin, we were wrong." Lusiris stood up, the boy's voice trembling a little: "We didn't expect Jonniel's reaction to be so big."

"Don't shift the blame to Jonniel, Lou." Igor patted his cousin's face expressionlessly: "If the bad words hadn't come out of your mouths, nothing would have happened."

He looked at each child calmly.

"Now, who wants to be the first to apologize to Joniel?"

Adele stood up, and the girl pulled the timid Maggie and held out a brocade bag embroidered with a silver dragon and laurel leaves: "We...we were planning to give this to Joniel tonight. Tell him that we are not isolating him."

A bronze scale rolled out of the brocade bag. Its edge had been polished into a smooth arc and was worn on a silver chain.

Those were the scales that Wormithor had shed, Jonniel's favorite.

Igor actually felt a little ridiculous for a moment.

I'll help you kid, you're thinking about my dragon. Throwing the messy thoughts out of his mind, Igor glanced at the children.

"Very good, follow me to the dragon's lair, I have to give you some remedial lessons."

In the deepest part of the dragon's lair, the breath of Wormisol stirred up a warm air current, blowing the children's robes. The oldest dragon in the world lowered its head, its bronze eyelids half closed, as if examining these tiny creatures.

"Touch it," Igor ordered.

The children all stepped back in fear, except for Jonniel, who stood still—his gray eyes reflected the golden flame of a dragon's pupil.

Igor took his nephew's hand and pressed it together on the old scar on the tip of Vermithor's nose. The dragon scales felt unexpectedly warm, like armor that had been exposed to the sun.

"This scar," Igor's voice vibrated in the dragon's breath, "was left by Wormithor in the dragon battle during the Dance of the Dragons to protect my grandfather." The dragon suddenly blew out a breath of sulfur, and Maggie screamed and hugged her brother's arm. "And the one who could leave a scar on Wormithor," Igor moved Jonil's hand to the other side of the dragon's neck, "was its mother, Vhagar."

"The biggest enemy of the dragon race has never been foreign races." Igor asked each child to touch the scars, "It's the divided self."

Aslan suddenly burst into tears, and hurriedly took the dragon scale necklace from his sister Adele and put it into Jonil's hand. Luthris took off his silver belt, which Igor gave him on his name day last year, and tied it clumsily around his cousin's waist. Meggie hugged her brother, her eyes red.

There was a low groan from Wormithor, which Seneoll later said was definitely the dragon laughing.

Of course, the one who cried and laughed the most that day was Jonnell.

At dawn the next day, Joniel was awakened by a rustling sound. He pushed open the carved wooden window of his room, and in the morning mist stood five figures with mottled hair - Luthris, Senelor, Aslan, Adele, and even his sister Meggie - their silver and blonde hair had all turned into different shades of brown, as if they had been roughly soaked in inferior dyes. Meggie's bangs were still dripping with brown water beads, obviously hastily done before coming.

"We used walnut juice." Lusiris scratched his itchy scalp. There were still a few stubborn silver strands left on his platinum hair. "The maid said this is the hardest to wash off."

Senelor held up a silver mirror, and Jonil saw five brown-haired children imitating the northern etiquette awkwardly - one hand on the chest, a slight nod, that is the Stark way of apologizing. Adele even drew a crude wolf pattern on her face with charcoal, and the lines were smudged as if she had been beaten.

When Joniel's tears hit the windowsill, Maggie suddenly took out a pair of scissors and said, "If you are not satisfied, you can cut my hair--"

"Gods above!" The head maid who came rushing over after hearing the noise screamed and fainted.

The raven from Tidehead arrived at lunchtime, wearing the personal signet ring of Regen Varese on his ankle, and he and Elena were there supervising the construction of a warship. As Igor unfolded the gilded letter in public, the children were trying to wash away the walnut stains with honey water - the result was that their hair was stuck together like a sugar block.

Finally, the tower echoed with the frantic voices of Maggie and Adele: "I want real brown hair! Long enough to be braided into bridles!"

Even the oldest Luthris, with caramel hair, yelled in front of Joniel: "It's a deal - none of us can change back to our original hair color before Joniel rides a dragon!"

"To my dearest nephew:
I heard you made my kids dye their hair? Well done! Someone should have dealt with that kid Luthris long ago - last time he mocked that Seneoor was younger than little Valar's little brother - Gods, who taught him that?

How about this, let them stay in Dragon's Nest this year, let Womisoer teach them what the "dignity of the dragon race" means, and cure Lusiris's picky eating problem, and tell him: dragons don't eat carrots because dragons have style, not because of his childish picky eating theory.

Also: Don't tell Adele that her hair dye skills suck.

Your ever-reliable uncle,

"Legend"

When Igor finished reading the last word, he could guarantee that the muffled sound coming from Wormisol in the dragon's lair was definitely laughter.

(End of this chapter)