Fate's Mockery

The atmosphere in the inner keep's courtyard was livelier than in the oppressive sept, though the air remained steeped in mourning. Cold mountain winds carried scattered rain, brushing across the solemn faces of those gathered.

Queen Alysanne was discussing with the maids from the Eyrie how they would care for Jeyne. King Jaehaerys and Prince Baelon stood not far away. The old king looked composed, while Baelon's face remained dark and still, the old wound beneath his ribs seemingly aching faintly from the cold and high-altitude pressure.

Daemon Targaryen seemed somewhat distracted, his gaze wandering through the solemn crowd as though searching for something.

Just then, footsteps approached—deliberate, accompanied by the heavy scrape of bronze armor.

Lord Yorbert Royce led a young woman through the crowd, heading straight toward the gathered royal family.

The young woman was tall and wore a deep-blue riding outfit with a crisp cut, decorated only with simple bronze sigils at the collar and cuffs. Her ebony-black hair was bound neatly behind her head, revealing a smooth forehead and a face that was... strikingly heroic, even somewhat sharp.

Her brows were thick, dark, and straight; her nose high and straight; her lips pressed tightly together. Her pale gray eyes resembled the streams flowing through the mountains of Runestone—clear, yet carrying the cold hardness of stone.

Her gaze was direct, frank, and even somewhat unpolished, with a sharpness utterly at odds with that of a noble lady.

This was Rhea Royce, Lord Yorbert's niece and heir—the future wife of Daemon Targaryen.

"Your Grace, Your Majesty," Yorbert said in a voice as steady as bronze, bowing to Jaehaerys and Alysanne. "Allow me to introduce my niece, Rhea Royce." He turned to Daemon Targaryen, his gaze beneath the bronze helm carrying scrutiny and a faint, nearly imperceptible expectation. "Rhea, this is Prince Daemon Targaryen."

Rhea's eyes immediately focused on Daemon Targaryen like searchlights. Without the slightest attempt at concealment, she looked him over from head to toe—from his distinctive silver hair, to his handsome yet somewhat flamboyant features, and finally to the clothes that remained lavish and exquisite even after a funeral.

There was none of a young maiden's shyness or admiration upon first meeting her betrothed. There was only pure curiosity and... appraisal? As though she were examining a newly acquired weapon, rumored to be priceless but of uncertain usefulness.

Daemon Targaryen looked at Rhea as well. He had to admit that she was unusual. Her distinctive heroism and icy temperament even captivated him for an instant.

He raised his usual smile, one carrying a trace of wicked charm and confidence, and dipped into a slight bow, attempting to display the bearing of a dragon prince. "Lady Rhea, I have long heard of your name. The beauty of Runestone's bronze truly lives up to its reputation."

He had intended to praise her unusual temperament, perhaps with a touch of teasing, expecting her to respond with shyness or admiration.

However, Rhea's reaction was entirely beyond his expectations.

Her brows drew together, the thick black arches nearly knotting. Her pale gray eyes stared straight at Daemon, and her voice was clear and direct, even bluntly unromantic. "The beauty of bronze lies in its resilience and the power of its protective runes, Your Highness. It is not for describing a person's appearance." She paused, her gaze naturally sweeping over the gem-studded, excessively ornate sword at his waist—not Dark Sister, but the decorative blade he wore daily. Her tone remained flat, yet her words struck with the precision of a small knife. "A true warrior cares more whether the sword in his hand is sharp than whether its scabbard is splendid." There was no malice in her words. She was merely stating what she believed to be fact. Yet that naked frankness and merciless "correction" were no different from a bucket of ice water poured over Daemon's eager warmth.

The smile on Daemon Targaryen's face froze at once, like dragonfire turned to ice. In her eyes, had his prized beauty and elegance become shallow ornaments? And that priceless sword, forged by a master craftsman in King's Landing, had been judged gaudy and impractical? Anger at the insult and embarrassment surged through him in an instant.

He forcibly restrained himself from reacting. Only the smile at the corner of his lips became extraordinarily stiff and cold, while a flash of wounded displeasure passed through the depths of his violet eyes.

He was accustomed to flattery and infatuation. Never had anyone judged him so bluntly, almost rudely—especially not his own betrothed! This first meeting planted a sharp thorn deep in Daemon's heart.

The future slur he would use for his wife—"Bronze Bitch"—seemed to emerge faintly at that very moment, laden with cold mockery.

Standing nearby, Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen took in all of it.

He watched Daemon Targaryen suppress his anger. He watched Rhea Royce's utterly unaware, still open and direct—even stubbornly straightforward to the point of social ineptitude—gaze. A cold ripple rose in his heart. The wheels of history truly were heavy and stubborn.

The few sparse words in the history books of his previous life—"an unhappy marriage," "living apart," "Bronze Bitch"—were now playing out their prologue before his very eyes with startling vividness.

No matter how he stirred the waters of fate, some paths appeared to have been predetermined long ago.

After brief pleasantries filled with awkward silences, Yorbert Royce quickly turned the conversation back to business.

In the great hall of Moon Gate Keep, before all the Vale's important nobles, King Jaehaerys formally announced Yorbert's appointment and once again emphasized the royal family's absolute support for Jeyne Arryn's right of inheritance.

Queen Alysanne pinned a small, delicate falcon brooch onto Jeyne's clothes, symbolizing the royal family's protection.

An old nurse held the drowsy little duchess, who knew nothing of any of this.

Lord Yorbert Royce, lord of Runestone, wore his ancestral bronze armor, carved all over with ancient runes. Under the hall's torchlight, it gleamed with a dim, cold, unyielding luster.

Like a bronze bear guarding its cub, his massive frame stood as steady as a mountain. One hand rested upon Lamentation at his waist, while the other lay firmly on Jeyne's small shoulder—a silent yet immensely powerful declaration.

There was no unnecessary expression on his weathered, sharply lined face, only the firmness of bronze and unquestionable authority.

He needed no words. That armor and the great sword at his waist were the loudest proclamation: anyone coveting the Eyrie's seat would first have to face House Royce's ancient runes and the regent's fury. Those watchful, ill-intentioned gazes had no choice but to temporarily withdraw and lie dormant before the royal dragons, the king's majesty, and the cold, hard aura exuded by Yorbert's bronze armor.

Their purpose accomplished, the royal party did not linger in the cold and oppressive Moon Gate Keep. The biting mountain winds and heavy atmosphere were unbearable.

At the moment of farewell, Gael gathered her courage. While everyone's attention was on the elders' final exchange of courtesies, she swiftly stuffed a small item wrapped in soft sheepskin into Daemon Blackfyre's hand. Her face was so red that she did not dare raise her head, and her voice was so soft it was nearly scattered by the mountain wind. "I... I'll be staying in the Vale with Mother for a few more days, to look after Jeyne... Inside... there's calming grass unique to Moon Gate Keep... and... a new charm..." She stole a quick glance at him, her pale violet eyes filled with worry and reluctance. "...You... be careful on the journey."

Queen Alysanne watched the scene with a smile, her eyes filled with affection and understanding.

She walked over to Daemon Blackfyre, gently patted his arm, and whispered, "Keep it safe, child. A pure heart's affection is the warmest flame on a cold journey. It is enough to drive away the chill of the high skies and the gloom ahead."

The four giant dragons took to the sky once more, their enormous wings stirring the cold currents above Moon Gate Keep as they carried the eager-to-return royal family toward King's Landing.

Vhagar's flight seemed somewhat heavy and slow. Prince Baelon sat in the dragon saddle with a faint frown, the old wound beneath his ribs apparently growing more uncomfortable in the freezing heights.

Caraxes remained swift and vigorous, but Daemon Targaryen sat on its back with a face as dark as iron. Clearly, he was still brooding over Rhea Royce's words—so blunt they had nearly pierced him, grinding his pride into dust. The enormous gap between his betrothed's image and his expectations cast a deep shadow over his heart.

Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen guided Glutton through the high sky, feeling the piercing cold wind that seemed capable of freezing blood itself.

He looked back at Moon Gate Keep as it gradually shrank into the distance. Its icy-blue spires stood beneath the dark, low-hanging sky like a giant frozen tear, symbolizing the Vale's grief and coldness at that moment.

Yet in his palm, Gael's newly gifted charm and calming grass carried a faint, reassuring herbal fragrance through the sheepskin—the only genuine warmth on this cold journey home.

That warmth intertwined with the pulse of the brand upon his shoulder and the cold sense of power emanating from Glutton's massive body, creating a strange contradiction.

Ahead, the undercurrents of King's Landing and the greater vortex brought by the name "Targaryen" awaited him silently, like the tides of Blackwater Bay.

Glutton seemed to sense the complex turbulence in its master's heart and released a deep, drawn-out roar, as though it came from an ancient abyss.

The roar pierced through layers of cold, gloomy cloud. It was both a sigh for the death and cold they had just witnessed, and a deep, chilling declaration to the unknown fate ahead.