Frost at the Moon Gate

The smoke over Widow's Wail Canyon had yet to disperse when cold rain began washing over the charred rocks and soaking into the ashes in the earth.

The four dragons did not linger. Their massive forms swept over the valley shrouded in the stench of death, flying toward the heart of the Vale—the Eyrie and Moon Gate Keep.

Though the flames of vengeance had been lit, the void of power and endless grief left behind still needed the living to fill and soothe them.

Moon Gate Keep, the magnificent fortress guarding the Vale's throat, was now steeped in heavy mourning.

The sky-blue banners of House Arryn flew at half-mast, fluttering weakly in the cold, damp mountain wind.

The castle was filled with the mingled scent of incense and wet stone walls. It sought to conceal the stench of death, but only made the oppression more palpable.

Lords from every family in the Vale had gathered here, black mourning veils pinned to their sky-blue robes. Their expressions were solemn, yet calculation and scrutiny lurked deep in their eyes.

The Duke and Duchess of House Arryn, along with their young son, had died tragically, leaving behind only a three-year-old female heir—Jeyne Arryn. To certain Arryn branches with somewhat closer blood ties, this was undoubtedly a tempting "accident."

The funeral was held in the solemn Sept of the Seven within Moon Gate Keep.

A cold stone coffin rested at the center. There were no bodies within, only symbolic garments and a few remnants barely recovered from the canyon ashes.

Candlelight flickered through the sept as the low prayers of the septons echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling, carrying a hollow sort of compassion.

Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen stood among the royal family, a little behind Prince Baelon.

He wore plain, dark clothing and deliberately kept his presence restrained.

The heavy incense and muted sobbing made him uncomfortable. The brand on his shoulder seemed to pulse faintly beneath the oppressive atmosphere, bringing a slight burning pain.

He coldly observed the Vale nobles. Their heads were bowed in displays of grief, but their peripheral glances repeatedly drifted toward the small figure beside the altar.

Three-year-old Jeyne Arryn was held by her nursemaid, wrapped in a thick black velvet cloak, with only her pale, bewildered little face exposed.

The grave, frightening atmosphere seemed to have terrified her. Tears filled her large sky-blue eyes, and her little mouth trembled, yet she did not dare cry aloud.

Her guardian, the Eyrie's newly appointed regent and Protector of the Vale, Count Yorbert Royce, stood at her side like a guardian deity cast from bronze. He wore his ancestral bronze armor, engraved with ancient runes, which gleamed with a hard, ghostly light beneath the candles.

His face was resolute, his eyes as sharp as a hawk's as they swept over everyone present, silently proclaiming his will to protect her. Any improper designs on Jeyne's position would have to face the edge of Runestone bronze.

The funeral rites were long and heavy. Just as the final trace of prayer faded into the cold air, an unusual commotion suddenly arose outside the sept. It was not human voices, but a clear dragon's cry piercing through the rain!

Everyone looked toward the sound in alarm. Above the castle courtyard, a beautifully formed dragon with scales glimmering silver-gray like moonlight was slowly descending, graceful yet majestic—Silverwing. Queen Alysanne sat firmly upon its back. Her usual gentleness had vanished, and her expression was solemn as royal majesty cloaked her like something unseen.

Clinging tightly around her waist behind her, with her little face buried in the Queen's cloak, was Princess Gael Targaryen.

Silverwing elegantly folded its wings, then turned its enormous head toward the sept and let out a low, soft cry that seemed almost comforting.

Queen Alysanne dismounted with the help of guards, with Gael following close behind. Her steps were somewhat unsteady, her face pale. The high-altitude flight and the bleak surroundings had clearly left her deeply uneasy.

But when her gaze passed through the crowd and urgently found that familiar figure—Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen—her light violet eyes brightened for an instant before quickly lowering again, her long lashes concealing the surging emotions beneath.

Queen Alysanne walked straight toward the altar. Her arrival was like a warm current, instantly dispersing some of the gloom.

She first bowed deeply to the stone coffin, then went to little Jeyne, crouched down, and soothed the frightened child in the gentlest voice. She personally straightened the girl's crooked little cloak.

Then she turned to Count Yorbert Royce. Her voice was not loud, yet it carried clearly through the silent sept.

"Lord Yorbert," Queen Alysanne said, sweeping her gaze over the Vale nobles present after receiving Jaehaerys's approving look, "I have come upon Silverwing, representing the Iron Throne and the entire Targaryen Lineage." She paused, and her gaze became incomparably sharp. "House Arryn is among the Crown's most loyal allies. Lady Jeyne Arryn is the unquestionable lawful heir to the Eyrie and the Vale! Any attempt to covet her rights shall be regarded as a challenge to the Iron Throne and will surely face the judgment of dragonfire!"

Her words struck with force, accompanied by Silverwing's timely, majestic roar from the courtyard—a tangible threat.

The Arryn relatives who had been quietly stirring only moments ago immediately turned ugly-faced. They lowered their heads one after another, no longer daring to look directly at the Queen or Jeyne.

Count Yorbert Royce bowed deeply, his bronze armor grinding heavily. "By bronze and by the names of my ancestors, I swear that House Royce shall do all in its power to protect Lady Jeyne until she comes of age and takes command of the Eyrie! My thanks to Her Majesty the Queen and the Iron Throne for their trust and support!"

Queen Alysanne nodded slightly, and the invisible pressure eased somewhat. Only then did she turn toward the royal family, her gaze falling on Daemon Blackfyre with a trace of barely perceptible softness. Then she softly told Gael beside her, "Go on, child. Someone has been worried sick." Her voice was quiet, but in the silent sept, it was more than clear enough for the nearby Daemon Blackfyre to hear.

Two crimson blooms instantly spread across Gael's cheeks, all the way to her ears. Embarrassed, she twisted her fingers and lowered her head like a child who had done something wrong. Yet she could not help stealing a quick glance at Daemon Blackfyre before shuffling toward him, almost inching to his side.

"Gael?" Daemon Blackfyre looked at her in surprise, keeping his voice low. "Why are you here? This place..." He glanced around at the solemn, oppressive surroundings. "It isn't suitable for you."

Gael lowered her head, her voice as faint as a mosquito's buzz. "M-Mother said... you were here... I... I was worried..." Her voice grew softer and softer until it was nearly inaudible, while the tips of her ears turned so red they seemed ready to bleed. That pure, clumsy concern was like a faint but warm ray of light, piercing the funeral's gloom and gently touching a cold corner of Daemon Blackfyre's heart. He fell silent for a moment before saying softly, "I'm fine. Thank you for coming."

At last, the funeral prayers ended. As the crowd slowly filed out of the sept, the heavy atmosphere loosened slightly. In silence, they entered the relatively open inner courtyard, though it remained shrouded by the chilling mountain wind, as if they had temporarily escaped the suffocating presence of the coffin and candle shadows.