Ice and Fire: Reign of the Dragon.

Chapter 415: The End of the Wise King's Prosperous Era

King's Landing, Red Keep, King Daeron II's chambers

After a long summer, there was another long summer. The winter that lasted for a year could not be called winter at all. The rose garden of the Red Keep was still in full bloom, but the king's bedroom was filled with the smell of herbs and decay. Daeron II leaned on the velvet cushions. His once upright body was now as thin as a dead branch. In his deep eye sockets, his iconic purple pupils were still bright, but like a candle swaying in the wind, they could go out at any time.

Outside the window, storm clouds swirled in the twilight, and the one-horned blue dragon roared, as if sensing its master's weakness. Darren's fingers tapped lightly on the edge of the bed, his knuckles turning white, as if he was still trying to grasp some invisible authority.

The door was silently pushed open, and Prime Minister Ringol walked in. The Prime Minister's silver hair shone coldly in the candlelight, and his purple robe with a silver dragon and laurel leaf emblem fell like the night. His steps were steady, but Daeron knew that this old man who had ruled the Seven Kingdoms with an iron fist for more than 20 years was no longer young.

"Your Majesty." Lingol bowed slightly, his voice low and calm.

Darren's breathing was a little rapid, and every breath he took was like swallowing a handful of fine ice. He raised his hand and motioned Ringol to come closer.

"Ringol," his voice was hoarse, but still carried unquestionable majesty and the request of the younger generation to the elder, "My children cannot live under the shadow of the Black Fire. It's time to get rid of them."

The Prime Minister's purple eyes narrowed slightly, as if he had anticipated this moment.

"Baelor, Aerys, Rhaeg, Maekar... they must inherit a stable kingdom." Daeron's fingers trembled slightly, "not a kingdom that may be torn apart by rebellion. The remnants of the Blackfyre have already taken control of Lys's political situation for us, and it is time to reap the harvest."

Lingol was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"Your Majesty, I will obey your will."

Daeron closed his eyes, as if he had unloaded a heavy burden. He knew Ringol's methods, which were clean, thorough, and left no trace. The remnants of the Blackfyre would be uprooted like weeds, and history would only remember their failure.

Outside the window, the storm clouds let out a low dragon roar, as if responding to the king's determination.

Lingol stood up, his dark purple cape billowing behind him like a dark tide. He walked towards the door, but then stopped and whispered:

"Just rest and recuperate, Your Majesty."

"The Seven Kingdoms. They will remain the Targaryen Seven Kingdoms."

The door closed gently, and the palace fell into silence again. Daeron II looked at the dragon relief on the ceiling, and in a trance, he seemed to see himself in his youth, the "wise king" who saved the mess left by his foolish and impatient father, the ruler praised by all people.

And now, he can only entrust the final mission to the person he trusts most - even though he can already see the inevitable future.

For the family, for the kingdom, for the continuation of fire and blood.

Reese, a poison guild controlled by Han Tie.

Rainwater flowed along the stained glass windows, refracting the flickering candlelight in the hall into blood. Aemon Blackfyre knelt in front of the stone altar, holding the dragon egg in his hands. Thousands of experiments left strange patterns on the surface of the dragon egg, like dried blood.

"Light the blessing fire," he whispered, his voice trembling with desire.

Flames rose in the bronze brazier, and the dragon egg was placed on the hot coals. Aemon's brother Aegon stood beside him, half of his face still wrapped in linen bandages, which was the "gift" left by the failed hatching two weeks ago. After so many years, the two of them have had children, but the dragon egg is still motionless - Aegon's face is almost the same. His fingers tapped the hilt of the sword nervously, and his purple eyes danced with morbid enthusiasm.

"Try again," Aegon hissed. "Father said that the blood of a true dragon can awaken the dormant dragon soul."

He pulled out a dagger from his waist, cut his palm, and let the blood drip onto the hot eggshell. The blood instantly boiled, making a crackling sound and steaming up a rusty mist.

The dragon egg suddenly trembled.

A hair-thin crack spread along the dark red lines, revealing an eerie emerald glow.

Aemon's breath hitched.

"It's moving!" He leaned forward suddenly, almost putting his face close to it. "Did you see it? Aegon! It finally..." Click.

The second crack exploded, and the green light suddenly surged.

Aegon's pupils contracted - it was not the orange-red of dragon flame, but
Wildfire
Wildfire mixed with Pseudo-dragon crystal
boom!
The shockwave of the explosion tore down an entire stone wall. Aemon's upper body was thrown toward the ceiling by the blast, and at the moment when his spine shattered the stained glass, his eyes were still fixed on the "dragon egg", which was now broken into countless burning fragments, and green flames were greedily licking the soles of his boots.

Aegon was worse off. He was too close.

The wildfire stuck to his bandages, instantly igniting the unhealed wounds underneath. He screamed and slapped his cheeks, but only scorched flesh was left. When his fingers poked into his melted eye sockets, the last thing he saw was the door being blown open by the gust of air.

Aegor Froststeel's eyes reflected the green flames of hell, and the strange magic of the Thousand-Faced God gradually became ineffective under the erosion of the heat wave.

An ordinary middle-aged man stood expressionlessly beside the ruins.

The Faceless Man gracefully avoided the collapsed beams and took off the three-headed black dragon ring that Aemon often wore from the charred remains of his limbs. He gently rubbed his finger against the inside of the ring - a small hollow needle popped out from the hidden mechanism, and some transparent liquid still remained on the tip of the needle.

"Valar morghulis." (All men are mortal)
He whispered to the burning body.

If the fake dragon egg wasn't enough to kill both elder Blackfyres at once, then the poison would accomplish the same goal.

At the same time, there was a seaside palace controlled by Han Tie.

The flickering candlelight gave the banquet hall a false golden glow.

Little Daemon Blackfyre stood at the end of the long table, his face still showing the sharpness and innocence that only young people have. He raised his glass high, and the deep red Lys wine in the glass reflected his violet eyes inherited from his father, which were pure and had not yet been completely polluted by power and hatred.

"To the Loren family!" he declared in a clear voice. "From tonight, your swords and loyalty will belong to the true dragon!"

On both sides of the long table, members of the Loren family lowered their heads, their mouths pursed into stiff lines. Old Loren, with gray hair and a haggard face, slowly stood up, holding up the wine glass with his hands covered with age spots and trembling slightly.

The Loren family was defeated by Hantie. According to Reese's rules, Hantie will take over the industries controlled by the Loren family, while the Loren family itself and Reese's characteristic industries are waiting for the family's descendants.

Damon generously forgives the losers - he thinks this is most like his father in the book.

"To Blackfire." His voice was as hoarse as the rustling of dead leaves, but there was a strange smile on the corner of his mouth. "May your rule be long and stable."

Damon laughed and drank the whole glass.

At first, Damon just felt hot, a comfortable warmth spreading from his stomach to his limbs, reminding him of the nights when he listened to stories at his mother's knees as a child. His vision gradually blurred, and the guests' laughter became distant, as if separated by a thick wool blanket.

"Father." He murmured unconsciously, his fingers loosened, and the crystal glass fell to the ground, and the shattering sound was like thunder on a rainy night.

His knees hit the edge of the long table and his body fell forward. Old Loren stood up in a panic to help him, but at an angle that was invisible to others, he gently stroked Damon's neck with his old fingers.

"Call a doctor!" someone screamed.

But it's too late.

Daemon Blackfyre fell on the carpet embroidered with three black dragon emblems, with a happy smile on his lips, as if he was dreaming about dragons and glory. His pupils gradually dilated, and what finally came into his eyes was the faded mural on the ceiling, with thousands of ships crossing the sea and giant dragons flying in the sky.

That is the scene of thousands of ships of Varese crossing to the west.

(End of this chapter)