The white stone towers of the Eyrie floated in the morning mist like ice sculptures.
As Daemon's group climbed the stone steps past Sky, the thunderous sound of the Alyssa's Tears waterfall filled their ears. The mist refracted rainbows in the sunlight, dampening the tips of everyone's hair.
Seven slender white towers clustered tightly together. The silver foil on their tops glittered in the morning light, as if ready to melt into the clouds at a touch.
"Even more like a fairyland than the legends." Gael looked up at the spire of the Maiden's Tower. Behind her, the pale blue Dreamfyre crooned low, her scales reflecting the white stone of the tower like two flowing streams of light.
The defending knights welcomed them in the Crescent Chamber. This was a resting place for climbers; pine logs burned in the stone hearth, and the air was filled with the aroma of mead and roasted chestnuts.
Jeyne Arryn, wearing a silver fox cloak, sat on a bench in the corner while a handmaiden combed her jet-black hair. Seeing Daemon enter, she jumped off the chair immediately and ran over: "Daemon, you're here! I said I'd show you the Sky Cells!"
Yorbert Royce followed quickly, a helpless smile on the old Earl's face. "My Lady, the Sky Cells are no place for guests."
But Daemon nodded with a smile. "No matter, I wish to see this unique feature of the Eyrie."
Looking down from the cliff edge by the Sky Cells, the rocks of the valley 600 feet below looked like sharp teeth. Cold wind mixed with mist rushed up, nearly blowing people off.
The so-called "cells" were merely sloping stone shelves carved into the cliff face. The steepest one could only accommodate a person curled up, and chains made whimpering sounds in the wind.
"They say Jonos Arryn was thrown from here back then." William Royce stood beside Daemon, his voice somewhat broken by the wind. "King Maegor rode Balerion straight to the Eyrie; no one could stop him."
Daemon recalled that history, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the hilt of Blackfyre. "Even the strongest castle cannot stop dragonfire." He looked at the distant Vale; villages under the clouds looked like scattered chess pieces. "Just as even the most precipitous mountains cannot stop those who wish to go home."
The victory feast was held in the High Hall of the Eyrie. The blue-veined white marble walls glowed faintly under the illumination of fire pillars. Outside the narrow arched windows, the mist of the waterfall drifted like light gauze.
The weirwood throne of House Arryn stood at the end of the hall, carved eagle claws gripping the armrests. Jeyne Arryn sat on it, three cushions under her feet, trying hard to look majestic on her small face.
Laughter from the Vale lords rose and fell. Lord Corbray had his arm around his nephew—a bright-eyed youth—introducing him to Daemon: "This is Leowyn; Lady Forlorn will pass to this lad. He says he wants to learn swordsmanship from the Prince and begs the Prince to take him in."
Leowyn immediately knelt on one knee, offering a short sword with both hands. "I beg the Prince to let me follow!"
When Daemon helped him up, he suddenly thought of Gwayne Corbray again—that "bastard" who practiced swords with him since childhood yet ended up facing him as an enemy.
He patted the youth's shoulder. "Your sword is good; don't fail it. Start practicing with Rupert Crabb tomorrow."
Not far away, Lord Hunter of Longbow Hall was pushing his second son forward. The boy carried a longbow taller than himself, cheeks flushed red. "I... my archery is okay. I wish to draw bow for the Prince."
Just as Daemon nodded in agreement, he heard Rhea Royce's cold sneer: "Some people sure know how to climb high branches, forgetting their own names."
Everyone looked toward the voice to see two young men in rune armor bearing the sigil of a Royce cadet branch standing by Daemon's retinue, wearing awkward smiles—they had just asked to join but hadn't received a response yet.
Yorbert Royce's face darkened instantly. "Rhea!"
Before Rhea could retort, Gunthor and William covered her mouth from left and right again. The muffled sound of bronze armor clashing was followed by the silver-armored youth apologizing profusely to Daemon: "Sorry Prince, she's just... straight-tempered."
Daemon waved his hand with a smile, but his gaze swept past the crowd to William and Gunthor. These two who had performed meritorious deeds at the Battle of the Gates of the Moon had not expressed any intention to join from beginning to end.
He knew clearly that Gunthor's loyalty belonged to the main House Royce, and William... perhaps was still hesitating.
After three rounds of wine at the banquet, the atmosphere grew warmer. Lord Sunderland, drunk, slapped the table shouting: "If the Prince married Lady Jeyne, our Vale and the Targaryens would be twisted into one rope!"
Jeyne Arryn's small face turned beet red instantly, burying her face in Yorbert's chest. The old Earl scolded with a smile: "The Marquess drank too much!" but a trace of imperceptible wariness flashed in his eyes.
Daemon walked to the center of the hall with his wine cup, the scabbard of Blackfyre tapping lightly on the stone floor. The crisp sound gradually quieted the noise.
"I appreciate everyone's kindness." His voice reached clearly across the hall. "But right now, the most important thing is for the people of the Vale to rebuild their homes. Though the mountain clans have retreated, the wind and snow of the Mountains of the Moon in early spring are harder to deal with than wildlings."
He turned to Yorbert. "I have asked Rupert to lead men to tally the losses of each village. Corlin is familiar with trade and will go with Lord Grafton to Gulltown to buy grain. The generous Lady Jeyne's charity is enough for the Vale smallfolk to survive this grueling spring."
The lords nodded one after another, looking at Daemon with added awe—this Prince not only knew how to fight but arranged logistics flawlessly.
Late at night, the Eyrie was exceptionally quiet. Daemon stood on the balcony of the Moon Tower, looking down at the lights of Sky spreading like stars along the mountain path. Gael walked over wearing his cloak, holding a small pot of warm wine. "What are you thinking about?"
"Thinking about this castle." Daemon took the wine pot, his gaze sweeping over the seven white towers. "When Roland Arryn built it, he probably wanted to guard the Vale forever. But even the highest walls cannot stop the changes in human hearts. By the way, when Lord Sunderland was making a fuss, you seemed unhappy?"
Gael turned her head to avoid answering and followed his gaze. On the balcony of the Maiden's Tower, William stood leaning on the railing, silver armor gleaming coldly in the moonlight. She changed the subject: "William seems to have something to say to you."
Just as Daemon nodded, he saw the silver-armored youth walking toward them, clutching something in his hand.
"Prince." William's voice sounded. "This is what Lord Yorbert asked me to give you." He handed over a large, yellowed parchment scroll depicting various tactical analyses, labeled in the corner "The Life's Work of Yorbert Royce."
"I know the Prince will leave the Vale sooner or later," William's cheeks reddened slightly. "These are Lord Yorbert's tactical experiences from most of his life. Perhaps... you can use them in the future."
Unfurling the scroll, Daemon suddenly understood the youth's hesitation—he wasn't unwilling to follow him, but wavering between pursuing glory and family responsibility. He rolled up the parchment and handed it back. "You need it more than I do." When William looked up, his eyes shone.
When Daemon returned to his room, Mysaria was mending his cloak by moonlight. The girl's platinum-blonde curls hung on her shoulders, fingers nimbly shuttling through the damaged fabric.
"The Princess said she is angry, so she punished you to sleep alone tonight," she said softly.
"What about you? What she said is really easy to misunderstand..." Daemon walked to the window, looking at the mist toward the Sky Cells.
The Cannibal and Dreamfyre dozed on the platform below the cliff. The black dragon's scales merged with the moonlight, while the pale blue she-dragon curled up like a block of melting ice.
"Go keep her company," Daemon's gentle tone held a trace of imperceptible firmness. "Tell her, never worry about the words of others, because my sword and heart will never change because of them. And you too, Mysa, rest early..."
The sound of the waterfall outside seemed louder, as if accompanying this promise.
The white towers of the Eyrie stood silently in the moonlight. Daemon knew the feast here would eventually end, and his journey lay further away.
But at least tonight, the torches on the stone walls, the songs in the hall, and the light in the young men's eyes made him feel that this arduous fight sweeping the entire Vale was worth it.
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