The atmosphere in the courtyard of the inner keep was slightly livelier than the oppressive gloom of the sept, though the heavy undertone of mourning remained. Cold mountain wind, carrying sporadic rain, brushed against people's solemn faces.
Queen Alysanne was discussing with the Eyrie's handmaidens how best to care for little Jeyne. King Jaehaerys and Prince Baelon stood nearby; the old King looked calm, while Baelon's face remained as still as dark water, the old injury beneath his ribs seemingly aching from the cold and high altitude.
Daemon Targaryen appeared somewhat distracted, his gaze roving through the solemn crowd as if searching for something.
Just then, the sound of footsteps approached—slightly deliberate and accompanied by the heavy grinding of bronze armor.
Lord Yorbert Royce led a young woman through the crowd, heading straight for the royal family.
She was tall, dressed in a deep blue riding habit that was sharply tailored, embroidered only at the collar and cuffs with simple bronze runes. Her ebony hair was pulled back meticulously, revealing a smooth forehead and a face that was... strikingly handsome, perhaps even a bit sharp.
Her eyebrows were thick and straight, her nose high, her lips pressed tight. Her pale grey eyes were like the mountain streams of Runestone—clear, but carrying the cold hardness of rock.
Her gaze was direct, frank, even lacking in adornment, possessing a sharpness that seemed out of place for a noble lady.
This was Rhea Royce, Lord Yorbert's niece and heir, and Daemon Targaryen's future wife.
"Your Grace, Your Grace the Queen," Yorbert's voice was as steady as bronze as he bowed to Jaehaerys and Alysanne. "Please allow me to introduce my niece, Rhea Royce." He turned to Daemon Targaryen, his gaze beneath the bronze visor holding scrutiny and a trace of imperceptible expectation. "Rhea, this is Prince Daemon Targaryen."
Rhea's gaze instantly focused on Daemon Targaryen like a spotlight. She looked him up and down without shying away, from his iconic silver hair to his handsome but somewhat flamboyant face, and finally to his attire, which, even after a funeral, could not hide its exquisite opulence.
There was no shyness or admiration of a maiden meeting her betrothed in her eyes, only pure curiosity and... assessment? Like examining a newly acquired weapon rumored to be priceless, but of unknown utility.
Daemon Targaryen looked at Rhea too. Undeniably, she was unique. That distinctive handsomeness and cold aura even attracted him for a moment.
He flashed his usual smile—part charming, part confident—and bowed slightly, attempting to display the flair of a Dragon Prince. "Lady Rhea, I have heard much of you. The bronze beauty of Runestone truly lives up to its name."
He intended to compliment her unique temperament, perhaps with a bit of teasing, expecting a shy or appreciative reaction.
However, Rhea's response was completely outside his expectations.
She frowned slightly, her thick eyebrows nearly knitting together. Her pale grey eyes looked straight at Daemon, and her voice was clear, direct, even rejecting his romantic overture with a somewhat uncomprehending rebuttal: "The beauty of bronze lies in its resilience and the power of its protective runes, my Prince. Not in describing a person's appearance. Furthermore," she paused, her gaze naturally sweeping over the jeweled, overly ornate sword at his waist (not Dark Sister, but a decorative sword he wore daily), her tone flat but cutting to the quick like a knife, "a true warrior cares more about whether the blade in his hand is sharp, not whether the scabbard is beautiful."
Her words held no malice; she was merely stating what she believed to be fact. But this naked bluntness and merciless "correction" was like a bucket of ice water poured over Daemon's expectant enthusiasm.
The smile on Daemon Targaryen's face froze instantly, like congealed dragonfire. His pride in his looks and demeanor seemed like shallow decoration in her eyes? His priceless sword, crafted by the finest smiths in King's Landing, was judged as flashy but useless? A wave of offended anger and embarrassment surged in his heart.
He forced himself not to lash out, but the smile at the corner of his mouth became extremely forced and cold. A flash of stung displeasure flickered deep in his violet eyes.
He was accustomed to flattery and infatuation. No one had ever evaluated him so bluntly, almost rudely—especially not his fiancée! This first meeting planted a sharp thorn in Daemon's heart.
The future slur for his wife—"Bronze Bitch"—seemed to faintly surface in this moment, carrying cold mockery.
Standing aside, Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen took it all in.
He watched Daemon Targaryen's suppressed anger, watched Rhea Royce's oblivious, frank, almost socially inept gaze, and felt a cold ripple in his heart. The wheels of history were indeed heavy and stubborn.
The few words in the history books of his past life—"unhappy marriage," "estrangement," "Bronze Bitch"—were now vividly playing out their prologue before his eyes.
No matter how he stirred the pool of fate, some trajectories seemed destined.
After the brief, awkward exchange, Lord Yorbert quickly steered the conversation back to business.
In the Great Hall of the Gates of the Moon, before all the important nobles of the Vale, King Jaehaerys officially announced Yorbert's appointment and reiterated the Crown's absolute support for Jeyne Arryn's inheritance rights.
Queen Alysanne pinned a small, exquisite falcon brooch on Jeyne's collar, symbolizing royal protection.
An old septa held the drowsy little Lady, who was oblivious to it all.
And Lord Yorbert Royce, Lord of Runestone, clad in his ancestral bronze armor covered in ancient runes, glowed with a cold, resilient luster in the torchlight.
Like a bronze bear guarding a cub, his burly figure stood steady as a mountain. One hand rested on the pommel of his sword, Lamentation, while the other rested steadily on Jeyne's small shoulder—a silent yet powerful declaration.
There was no superfluous expression on his weathered, chiseled face, only bronze-like determination and unquestionable authority.
He needed no words; that armor and the greatsword at his waist were the loudest proclamation: anyone coveting the throne of the Eyrie would first have to face the ancient runes of House Royce and the wrath of the Regent. Those with hidden agendas were forced to temporarily restrain themselves and lie dormant before the royal dragons, the King's majesty, and the cold, hard aura radiating from Yorbert's bronze armor.
With their purpose achieved, the royal party did not linger in the gloomy, oppressive Gates of the Moon. The biting mountain wind and heavy atmosphere were uncomfortable.
At the moment of farewell, Gael summoned her courage. While everyone's attention was on the elders' final pleasantries, she quickly shoved a small object wrapped in soft lambskin into Daemon Blackfyre's hand. Blushing too much to look up, her voice was so soft it was almost scattered by the mountain wind: "I... I will stay in the Vale with Mother for a few more days, to look after Jeyne... Inside... is soothing grass unique to the Gates of the Moon... and... a new amulet..." She glanced at him quickly, her pale violet eyes filled with worry and reluctance. "...You... be safe on the road."
Queen Alysanne watched this with a smile, her eyes holding affection and understanding.
She walked to Daemon Blackfyre, patted his arm gently, and whispered, "Keep it safe, child. Innocent intentions are the warmest fire on a cold journey, enough to dispel the chill of high altitudes and the gloom of the road ahead."
The four giant dragons took to the air once more. Massive wings churned the cold currents above the Gates of the Moon, carrying the eager-to-return royals toward King's Landing.
Vhagar's flight seemed somewhat heavy and slow. Prince Baelon sat in the saddle, frowning slightly; the old wound under his ribs seemed even more uncomfortable in the cold, high air.
Caraxes was as agile and swift as ever, but Daemon Targaryen sat on the dragon's back with a face as dark as iron. Clearly, he was still brooding over Rhea Royce's blunt, almost piercing words that had crushed his pride into the dust. The huge gap between his fiancée's image and his expectations cast a heavy shadow over his heart.
Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen piloted The Cannibal, feeling the bone-piercing wind of the high altitude that almost froze his blood.
He looked back at the receding Gates of the Moon. Under the dim, low-hanging sky, the ice-blue spires looked like a giant, frozen tear, symbolizing the current grief and coldness of the Vale.
However, in his palm, the faint, reassuring scent of herbs coming through the lambskin from Gael's new amulet and soothing grass was the only real warmth on this cold journey home.
This warmth intertwined with the pulsing of the brand on his shoulder and the cold power radiating from The Cannibal's massive body, forming a strange contradiction.
Ahead, the undercurrents of King's Landing and the greater vortex brought by the "Targaryen" identity were waiting silently for him, like the tides of Blackwater Bay.
Seeming to sense the complex turmoil in his master's mind, The Cannibal let out a low, long dragon roar that seemed to come from an ancient abyss.
This roar pierced through layers of cold clouds. It sounded like a sigh for the death and coldness just experienced, but also a deep, biting declaration to the unknown fate ahead.
---