Ice and Fire: Reign of the Dragon.

Chapter 472 The War of the Defenders (Part 5)
Dragon Nest City, Dragon Feeding Greenhouse.

No new dragon eggs have hatched here for a long time.

In the dimly lit greenhouse, only three dragon eggs, already riddled with cracks, shimmered faintly in Daenerys's arms. They were placed in a copper basin lined with black wool, the scales on their shells appearing like flowing metal in the torchlight.

Suddenly, the silver-blue dragon egg on the far left trembled slightly.

“It’s been too long, far too long.” Lei Geng, who had also rushed over upon receiving the news, suddenly stood up, his purple eyes blazing with fanaticism. “That’s how it is. No, no, that’s how it should be.”

Daenerys held her breath. She could feel the burning pulse of the dragon egg in her arms, as if three tiny hearts were awakening. Cracks spread across the eggshell like a spiderweb, making a soft "clicking" sound.

Aegon Targaryen couldn't resist reaching out, his fingertips barely touching the silvery-blue eggshell before he recoiled as if burned. But he didn't withdraw his hand; instead, he gently stroked the cracks: "If only the departed could see this."

click-

The silvery-blue eggshell suddenly cracked open, and a wet little claw poked its way out. Then, the entire eggshell shattered into pieces, and a young, entirely silvery-blue dragon struggled to crawl out. Its scales, still covered in slime, gleamed like pearls in the firelight.

“This is the dragon egg of the Flaming Dragon. We once thought it had lost its vitality.” Lei Geng’s voice trembled.

The young dragon shook its head, let out its first clear hiss, and spewed out a cluster of tiny grayish-white flames.

Before anyone could react, the second pure white dragon egg suddenly shook violently. Instead of cracking, the shell blossomed like flower petals. A silvery-white baby dragon stretched out its body; its scales were as pure as moonlight, its wings as thin as cicada wings, so elegant it didn't seem like a newborn creature, but rather a meticulously crafted work of art.

“The bloodline of the Silverwing,” Daenerys sighed softly.

The last crimson dragon egg emitted a muffled thud, as if something inside was pounding. Suddenly, the entire eggshell burst open, and a fiery red hatchling tumbled out. It was more ferocious than the previous two, spreading its wings as soon as it was born, its wing membranes as brilliant as the morning glow, and spewing a wisp of golden-red flame at the nearest Thundergod.

Lei Geng laughed loudly and dodged away: "Good lad! Haha, great, great! The flames have revived! Father, is that you?"

His smile gradually faded, and a hint of sadness flashed in his eyes.

Aegon's eyes lit up: "We must tell Lord Igor and the others immediately, this is an auspicious sign! Lord Raegon, sister, I'm riding Dreamfire!"

"No!" Ragen and Daenerys shouted at the same time.

Daenerys had already prepared a cradle for the three baby dragons. The crimson one struggled in her arms, the silver one curled up docilely, and the silver-blue one tried to climb onto her shoulder.

“I’m going.” Her long, silver-gold hair flowed like metal in the glow of the relit greenhouse fire. “Dunk, Lord Reigen, I beg you to keep an eye on this restless little fellow.”

Just as Aegon was about to protest, Duncan pressed his large hand down on his shoulder. The boy, taller than most adults, grinned, revealing a sunny smile: "Listen to me, Aegon. Your sister is much more stable riding a dragon than you are."

"Dunk! I haven't settled accounts with you yet!"

“That was Lord Igor’s order.” Duncan raised his hand as if he had suddenly become smarter, indicating his innocence.

Aegon had no choice; even if he sat on the Iron Throne, he couldn't refuse a proposal that was clearly for his own good, so he could only angrily withdraw his idea.

Under Aegon's resentful gaze, Daenerys walked with a smile toward the Dragon's Lair. The first true dragon roar rang out from the cradle of newborn dragons.

The flames have returned.

At this moment, in Long Night Keep, Brandon Stark slammed his fist on the oak table, causing the candlelight to flicker violently.

“That damned stag!” he roared, grabbing his goblet and smashing it against the stone wall. The oak goblet shattered with a crack, splashing ale onto the tapestry and soaking the Stark direwolf crest. “Who does he think he is? The way he looks at you, like you’re his hunted doe!”

Lyanna Stark stood quietly to the side, her grey eyes as calm as a frozen lake in winter. She bent down to pick up a shard of glass, her fingertips lightly tracing the sharp edge, as if examining an insignificant object.

“Brother,” her voice was soft, yet like an undercurrent beneath the ice, clear and unmistakable, “a marriage alliance between the Stormlands and the North would only benefit us.”

Brandon whirled around, staring at her anxiously: "Did you hear what he said at the banquet? He was like a horny john! Sister, don't blame me for not warning you, Robert slept with a whore from Storm's End when he was twelve. I won't allow my sister to marry that stag who's always in heat!"

Lyanna's lips curved slightly upward, not in a smile, but in an almost indifferent composure. "So what?" She gently placed the shards on the table. "He likes me, and his liking is useful to us."

Brandon's chest heaved violently, like an enraged direwolf. "You are a Stark daughter, not a bargaining chip!"

“No.” Lyanna looked up. “I am the daughter of the Starks, which means I know better than anyone that the North needs allies.”

The door was suddenly pushed open, and a cold wind carrying snow rushed into the room.

Rickard Stark stood in the doorway, his cloak still covered in the frost of Ghostwood. His gaze swept across the eldest son's face like a blade, and the temperature in the room seemed to plummet.

“Brandon, you fool.” His voice was deep, yet carried an undeniable air of authority. “Your impulsiveness will ruin the Stark family’s chances.”

Brandon opened his mouth, but his father's gaze froze him in place. Rickard strode in, his heavy wolfskin boots clicking on the floor, each step like a direwolf closing in on its prey.

"What do you think this is? A childish squabble?" Rickard's voice grew colder. "Robert Baratheon is the heir to Stormlands, backed by the entire Baratheon family, an ally and vassal of Baratheon. And you—" His finger almost poked Brandon's chest, "My foolish son, you fly into a rage over a few sweet words from him, even your brother is calmed down by you."

Brandon's face turned ashen, his fists clenched so tightly they cracked, but he couldn't refute it.

"That's my sister! I absolutely won't allow it, I absolutely won't allow it."

"Shut up."

Rickard's gaze shifted to Lyanna, the coldness in his eyes softening slightly. He reached out and gently stroked his daughter's hair, a rare hint of approval in his expression.

“And you, Lyanna,” his voice softened, “you understand politics better than your brother.”

Lyanna nodded slightly, her expression remaining calm. She wasn't unaware of Brandon's anger, but she knew even better that in the game of thrones, emotions were the most useless thing.

Rickard withdrew his hand, turned and walked towards the door, taking one last look at his eldest son before leaving.

“Remember, Brandon.” His voice was like the northern wind, cold and piercing. “The Starks can be angry, can be reckless, but they must never be foolish. When winter comes, everyone can be sacrificed, and this is not a sacrifice.”

The door slammed shut, leaving Brandon standing there, his anger still burning but with nowhere to vent. Lyanna picked up the last shard and gently placed it in his palm.

“Anger won’t solve anything, brother,” she said softly. “Robert loves me, I can see that, so there’s no need for you to worry. The Stark family needs Baratheon’s concessions and support. That’s why I’m getting close to him.”

Brandon stared at her, then finally clenched the shard tightly, blood seeping from between his fingers and dripping onto the ground like tiny red roses.

(End of this chapter)