The smoke from Widow's Wail Canyon had not yet cleared when cold rain began to wash over the scorched rocks and the ash seeping into the soil.
The four giant dragons did not linger. Their massive figures swept over the valley shrouded in death, flying toward the heart of the Vale—the Eyrie and the Gates of the Moon.
Though the flames of vengeance had been lit, the power vacuum and endless grief left behind required the living to fill and soothe.
The Gates of the Moon, the magnificent castle guarding the throat of the Vale, was now shrouded in a heavy atmosphere of mourning.
The sky-blue banners of House Arryn were lowered to half-mast, fluttering weakly in the damp, cold mountain wind.
The interior of the castle was filled with the mixed scent of incense and damp stone walls, an attempt to mask the gloom that only added to the oppression.
Lords from every house in the Vale had gathered here. Mourning bands of black gauze were pinned to their sky-blue surcoats. Their expressions were solemn, yet deep within their eyes lay unconcealed calculation and prying.
Lord Arryn, his lady wife, and their young son had died tragically, leaving only a three-year-old female heir—Jeyne Arryn. To certain cadet branches of House Arryn with slightly closer blood ties, this was undoubtedly a tempting "accident."
The funeral was held in the solemn sept within the Gates of the Moon.
A cold stone sarcophagus lay in the center. Inside, there were no bodies, only symbolic garments and a few remnants barely gathered from the ashes of the canyon.
Candlelight flickered in the sept, and the septons' low prayers echoed under the vault, carrying a hollow compassion.
Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen stood among the royal family, positioned slightly behind Prince Baelon.
He wore plain, dark clothing, deliberately restraining his presence.
The heavy incense and low sobbing made him uncomfortable. The brand on his shoulder seemed to pulse faintly under this oppressive atmosphere, bringing a slight stinging pain.
He coldly observed the Vale nobles: their heads were bowed in mournful postures, but from the corners of their eyes, they glanced frequently at the small figure beside the altar.
Three-year-old Jeyne Arryn was held by her wet nurse, wrapped in a heavy black velvet cloak, revealing only a pale, confused little face.
She seemed terrified by the solemn and frightening atmosphere. Her large, sky-blue eyes were full of tears, her small mouth pouting, but she dared not cry out loud.
Her guardian, the new Regent of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale, Lord Yorbert Royce, stood beside her like a patron god cast in bronze. Clad in ancestral bronze armor carved with ancient runes, he gleamed with a cold, hard light in the candlelight.
His face was resolute, his eyes sharp as a falcon's, scanning everyone present, silently declaring his will to protect. Any presumptuous thoughts regarding Jeyne's position would face the bronze edge of Runestone.
The funeral ceremony was long and heavy. Just as the last prayer dissipated into the cold air, a strange commotion suddenly came from outside the sept. Not human voices, but a clear dragon roar piercing the rain curtain!
Everyone looked toward the sound in surprise and suspicion. Above the castle courtyard, a beautiful dragon with scales shimmering like moonlit silver-grey was slowly descending, its posture elegant and majestic—it was Silverwing. On the dragon's back sat Queen Alysanne. Shedding her usual gentleness, her expression was solemn, the majesty of royalty enveloping her like an invisible cloak.
Behind her, arms tightly wrapped around her waist, face buried in the Queen's cloak, was Princess Gael Targaryen.
Silverwing elegantly folded her wings, turning her massive head toward the sept and letting out a low, soothing croon.
Supported by guards, Queen Alysanne dismounted. Gael followed closely, her steps somewhat unsteady and her face pale—clearly, the high-altitude flight and this bleak environment made her very uncomfortable.
But when her gaze cut through the crowd and urgently found that familiar figure—Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen—those pale violet eyes lit up instantly, then quickly lowered, long lashes hiding the surging emotions.
Queen Alysanne walked straight to the altar. Her arrival was like a warm current, instantly dispelling part of the gloom.
First, she bowed deeply to the sarcophagus, then walked to little Jeyne. Kneeling down, she comforted the frightened child with the gentlest voice and personally adjusted her crooked little cloak.
Then, she turned to Lord Yorbert Royce. Her voice was not loud, but it clearly reached every corner of the silent sept:
"Lord Yorbert," Queen Alysanne said, sweeping her gaze over the Vale nobles present after receiving an approving look from Jaehaerys. "I come with Silverwing representing the Iron Throne and the entire House Targaryen." She paused, her gaze becoming incredibly sharp. "House Arryn is the Crown's most loyal ally. Lady Jeyne Arryn is the undisputed lawful heir to the Eyrie and the Vale! Any act coveting her rights will be seen as a challenge to the Iron Throne and will face the judgment of dragonfire!"
Her words struck the ground with force, accompanied by a timely, majestic low growl from Silverwing in the courtyard, acting as a tangible deterrent.
The faces of those distant Arryn relatives who had been restless instantly turned ugly. They lowered their heads one after another, daring not to look directly at the Queen and Jeyne again.
Lord Yorbert Royce bowed deeply, his bronze armor making a heavy scraping sound. "In the name of bronze and my ancestors, House Royce swears to do everything in its power to protect Lady Jeyne until she comes of age to rule the Eyrie! We thank Your Grace and the Iron Throne for your trust and support!"
Queen Alysanne nodded slightly, the invisible pressure easing a bit. Only then did she turn to the royal family members. Her gaze landed on Daemon Blackfyre with a trace of imperceptible softness, then she whispered to Gael beside her: "Go on, child. Someone has been worried sick." Her voice was soft, but in the silent sept, it was loud enough for Daemon Blackfyre nearby to hear clearly.
Two blushes instantly flew onto Gael's cheeks, spreading all the way to her ears. She twisted her fingers shyly, head bowed like a child who had done something wrong, yet she couldn't help but glance quickly at Daemon Blackfyre before shuffling her steps, practically inching to his side.
"Gael?" Daemon Blackfyre looked at her with some surprise, his voice very soft. "Why did you come? Here... isn't suitable for you."
Gael kept her head down, her voice as thin as a mosquito's hum. "Mo... Mother said... you were here... I... I was worried..." Her voice became smaller and smaller, finally almost inaudible, her ears red enough to drip blood. That pure, clumsy concern was like a faint but warm light piercing the gloom of the funeral, gently touching a cold corner of Daemon Blackfyre's heart. He was silent for a moment, then whispered, "I'm fine. Thank you for coming."
The funeral prayers finally ended. The heavy atmosphere loosened slightly as the crowd slowly walked out of the sept. People silently moved to the inner courtyard, which was relatively open but still shrouded in the cold mountain wind, as if temporarily escaping the suffocating feeling of sarcophagi and candle shadows.
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