The autumn day in King's Landing was unusually clear. In the gardens of the Red Keep, broom and evening roses bloomed in competition, the air filled with a lazy, sweet fragrance.
King Jaehaerys was in rare high spirits, summoning his family for afternoon tea in the open-air pavilion. Sunlight filtered through the grape trellis, dappling the stone table with light and shadow. Rhaenyra was held in Queen Alysanne's lap, sucking on a honey-coated finger and making satisfied babbling sounds.
Prince Baelon set down his silver cup of mead, his gaze sweeping over the two Daemons sitting opposite him, a teasing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Counting the days, we should start preparations. The winter winds won't wait for a dawdling groom." He looked at Daemon Targaryen, his tone carrying the unique banter of an elder. "The bronze of Runestone isn't easy to warm up, Big Daemon. The Royce girl, Rhea—I hear her character is as hard as her family's ancestral armor, but also as durable as bronze once polished. Don't embarrass House Targaryen."
Daemon Targaryen was toying with a fig. Hearing this, he scoffed, his silver hair shimmering in the sunlight. "Embarrass? Father, you underestimate me. I tamed Caraxes; can I not tame a Vale girl?" He imagined his fiancée with the mix of curiosity and desire for conquest typical of a young man. "I hear she has hair black as ebony and eyes like the mountain streams of Runestone? I'll see whose is harder—her bronze armor or my dragonfire." The corner of his mouth curled up, seemingly already fantasizing about flying Caraxes with his new bride, drawing the awe of Vale knights.
Jaehaerys stroked his beard, his eyes smiling, but deeper down was the relief that his grandson was about to shoulder responsibility. "Rhea Royce is the niece and heir of Lord Yorbert Royce of Runestone. Noble blood, strong character—she matches the blood of the dragon. Treat her well, Big Daemon. Marriage is a duty, and a bond." He turned to Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen sitting a bit further away, his gaze gentle but carrying a hint of playfulness. "As for our newly crowned Champion Knight, Little Daemon, your flower crown is still hanging empty. Fierce in the arena, don't be timid in romance. Tell us, of all the ladies in King's Landing, has any made the heart of the 'Warrior Reborn' beat a little faster?"
The topic suddenly turned to him. Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen paused, cup in hand. His twelve-year-old body looked somewhat slight under the heavy Targaryen purple robe, but his eyes held a composure beyond his years. He put down the cup, his voice calm. "Grandfather, I am only twelve. The arena uses skill, not brute force. As for ladies..." He paused, his gaze sweeping the pavilion—Queen Alysanne looking at him lovingly, Rhaenyra babbling;
Princess Gael was focused on peeling a grape, her long lashes casting shadows on her fair face. Sensing his gaze, the tips of her ears turned slightly red, and she lowered her head further;
Cousin-in-law Aemma wore a gentle smile of encouragement;
Alicent Hightower stood not far from the Queen, holding a silver pitcher. Their eyes met briefly; her lapis lazuli eyes brightened, then she lowered her lids, a faint blush rising on her cheeks.
He withdrew his gaze, his tone carrying a trace of imperceptible helplessness and the shyness of youth. "Isn't it too early to discuss marriage? Right now, I only want to achieve deeds for the House."
Aemma chuckled, picking up the conversation to ease his embarrassment. "Twelve isn't too young; you can start looking. We have many good girls in the Vale—gentle, quiet, and well-read. In a year or two, I can keep an eye out for suitable ones and introduce you?" Her eyes were warm, genuinely thinking of this newly recognized cousin.
Viserys, holding his daughter, perked up at this. He smiled at Daemon, then glanced at Alicent standing nearby, deliberately raising his voice. "Vale girls are fine, of course, but I say only a Rose of Oldtown matches a True Dragon! The ladies of House Hightower are learned and elegant, like our Alicent..." He didn't finish, but the meaning was obvious, his gaze shifting teasingly between Daemon and Alicent.
Alicent's cheeks turned completely red, like a ripe apple. She lowered her head in panic, gripping the handle of the silver pitcher tightly, almost burying her head in her chest.
Queen Alysanne watched this, the smile in her eyes deepening. She turned and whispered something in Gael's ear that only the two of them could hear.
Gael jerked her head up, her pale violet eyes widening instantly. She looked at the Queen in disbelief, then shot a quick glance at Daemon, before her entire face and neck were dyed a brilliant crimson. As if scalded, she ducked her head sharply, dropping the grape onto her dress and leaving a small dark stain. She was flustered, wishing she could find a crack in the ground to hide in.
A ripple of good-natured laughter ran through the pavilion. Even Baelon couldn't help but lift the corners of his mouth.
Jaehaerys, seeing his grandson's awkward attempt at composure and the shy reactions of the two girls, felt cheerful, as if the troubles of the Small Council from recent days had dissipated significantly.
"Alright, alright," Jaehaerys waved his hand, stopping the laughter. "Viserys, stop teasing Lady Hightower. Little Daemon is still young; there is truly no rush for marriage. However," he shifted tone with a hint of slyness, "Gael, why are you blushing? Do you also think Little Daemon is outstanding?" This teasing made Gael even more ashamed, practically burying her face in little Rhaenyra's swaddle.
Just as this warm, slightly ambiguous, and joyful atmosphere reached its peak, a series of rapid, heavy footsteps carrying a sense of foreboding broke the garden's tranquility.
The High Steward rushed through the vine-covered archway, his face pale as paper, his breath trembling. Behind him followed a travel-worn messenger, armor covered in mud, helmet tucked under his arm, his exposed face covered in sweat and indescribable horror. The messenger clutched a parchment scroll stained with dark brown smudges.
The Steward didn't even have time to bow fully, shouting hoarsely: "Your Grace! Prince! Terrible news... the Eyrie... Lord Arryn..."
The smile on Jaehaerys's face froze instantly. Baelon shot to his feet, the chair legs scraping harshly against the stone floor.
Viserys's smile stiffened, his arms around Rhaenyra tightening unconsciously.
Daemon Targaryen frowned deeply, the fig in his hand rolling onto the ground.
Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen's heart sank. A cold premonition gripped him—his futile warning had ultimately failed to change the iron wheel of fate.
The messenger fell to his knees with a thud, holding the scroll high with both hands, his voice filled with sobs and terror. "Your Grace! Lord Arryn... his lady wife... and the young lords... on the way back to the Eyrie... in the Mountains of the Moon... ambushed by the Stone Crows clan! All... all gone! The convoy burned, no bodies recovered... only this... brought back by raven..."
Deathly silence instantly enveloped the entire pavilion. The sun still shone brightly, the flowers still smelled sweet, but the air seemed frozen into ice.
The color drained completely from Aemma Arryn's face. She looked blankly at the stained scroll, then at her husband Viserys. Her lips moved silently a few times, as if trying to confirm she had heard wrong. The next second, her body swayed violently, the last light in her eyes extinguished. As if all her bones had been removed, she collapsed softly backward.
"Aemma!" Viserys cried out, scrambling to catch his wife. Rhaenyra in his arms, frightened by the sudden upheaval, began to wail loudly.
"My Lady!" Handmaidens screamed and rushed forward.
"Maester! Call the Maester!" Queen Alysanne ordered sharply, though her voice trembled uncontrollably. She hugged the crying Rhaenyra tightly, her face equally pale.
The pavilion descended into chaos. The sound of breaking cups, the screams of women, Rhaenyra's piercing cries, and Viserys's desperate calls interwoven.
King Jaehaerys sat still, his hands gripping the armrests of his oak chair so hard his knuckles turned white. His deep purple eyes were fixed on the parchment held high by the messenger—the symbol of his in-laws' tragic death. Within them surged thunderous rage and bottomless grief. He opened his mouth but could make no sound, as if an invisible hand were choking him.
Prince Baelon's face was iron-grey. He strode forward and snatched the scroll, unfurling it roughly. His eyes scanned the scrawled, desperate text. With every line, the muscles in his face tightened, finally turning into a terrifying grimace. He jerked his head up, his gaze shooting like a sword at the kneeling messenger, then sweeping over the chaotic pavilion, finally landing on the pale, complex face of Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen. There was shock, grief, and a trace of incredulous questioning in that look.
Daemon Targaryen was still frozen in place. The vague, bronze-tinted image of his fiancée Rhea Royce in his mind was thoroughly shattered by the bloody tragedy before him. The Vale, Royce, the engagement... it all suddenly became distant and cold.
And Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen stood on the edge of the chaos, looking at Aemma's unconscious pale face, listening to Rhaenyra's helpless wailing, and feeling the soul-freezing anger and sorrow radiating from Jaehaerys and Baelon. He clenched his fists, nails digging deep into his palms. The Stone Crows... Mountains of the Moon... He had warned them, but history still crushed forward along its cruel track.
The illusion of the bronze engagement had just risen, only to be thoroughly stained red and shattered by sudden blood. Above King's Landing, the lazy autumn sun now seemed covered in a layer of blood.
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