Chapter 685: The Funeral

The death of the Hand of the King in Dorne was no small matter.

However, the Dornish rebellion had been quelled. All the culprits involved had been justly punished, bringing solace to the departed and some comfort to their grieving loved ones.

A few days later, a gentle rain drizzled.

The streets of King's Landing were washed clean by the rain. In front of the Red Keep's gates, two groups of mourners stood, their expressions somber. In the center lay a grand and elaborate coffin.

Inside rested the body of the former Hand, Jon Clinton. Lady Beth of House Brecken, Jon's pregnant widow, stood under an umbrella, tears streaming down her face.

After Viserys's ascension to the Valyrian throne, Arianne, now elevated to Empress, wore a solemn gown, standing gracefully under her umbrella. On her chest, she proudly bore the Targaryen sigil. By local customs, after marriage, she could be considered part of her husband's house.

Thus, Arianne could be referred to as Arianne Targaryen or Arianne Nymeros Martell.

At this moment, the dignified Empress stood by the young lady, softly comforting her.

Lady Beth Clinton appeared youthful. Her swollen belly indicated her recent adulthood, having been married off to the Hand, Jon Clinton, under her uncle's arrangement.

It was a favorable match. Beth wasn't dismayed by the age difference, as Jon, though twice her age, was still in his prime, not some feeble old man. And as the Hand and Governor of the Stormlands, Jon's position was powerful. Had it not been for Beth's uncle, Lord Jeffrey Brecken, the Master of Ships and Governor of the Riverlands, Jon might not have even considered her.

Jon, with his traditional values, didn't seek a dazzling beauty. He needed a wife of matching status, capable of continuing his lineage. Beth was the ideal choice.

As the Empress, Arianne took on her duties, holding the young woman's hand, offering gentle words of solace.

Conversations between women often led to quicker emotional connections.

On the other side, Viserys, clad in a somber attire, stood next to Jon Clinton's coffin, the metallic emblem on his chest reflecting the rain's gleam. Beside him were Oberyn, Varys, and others.

The Emperor stood without an umbrella, drenched in the rain. Aside from the Empress and the lady mourners, no one else dared open their umbrellas. They all bowed their heads, whether in genuine sorrow or mere pretense.

Before Jon Clinton's coffin, the Grand Septon of the Great Sept of Baelor and the Dean of the King's Landing Theological Academy stood. The rotund figure, crowned with a crystal diadem, placed a hand on the coffin's lid, mumbling words of eulogy, slightly panting.

Once the Grand Septon concluded his eulogy, Unsullied soldiers lifted Jon Clinton's coffin and placed it on a carriage.

"Prepare to depart!"

Following the call, the procession escorting Jon Clinton's remains officially left the Red Keep.

Viserys and the lords chose to mount their horses and carriages to follow the procession.

"I never thought Jon would meet his end in Dorne," Oberyn, still in his sandy-yellow robe, said, riding his black steed alongside Viserys.

It had been days since Viserys returned from Dorne. Yet, he'd locked himself in the Red Keep's dungeons, leaving Oberyn, among others, wondering.

"Hmm," Viserys replied, "Neither did I."

Viserys, Oberyn, Jon Clinton, and others were old comrades. They had ventured together in Essos, all tied to the Targaryen cause. Viserys was the driver of their metaphorical chariot, and these influential lords were its wheels—sharing in its glory and its falls.

Despite efforts from some to undermine the positions of stalwarts like Oberyn, Jon, and Barristan Selmy after the Seven Kingdoms were united, none succeeded. Viserys wasn't one to forget loyal friends. Even Ramsay Bolton, the universally disliked "Little Skinner," was justly rewarded.

Viserys and Oberyn, despite the rain, conversed like old friends, and onlookers envied their rapport.

"When my brother arrives in King's Landing, I'll let him know what he should do," Oberyn said, looking at a sniffling boy amongst the onlookers.

Prince Doran hadn't heeded Oberyn's warnings, leading to a major setback in Dorne. The Martells, known for their unyielding spirit, had their reputation tarnished. Doran was even traveling to King's Landing to atone. Oberyn was aware of his brother's impending arrival.

"Hmm," Viserys responded, raindrops trailing down his face. He gripped the reins and nodded, not saying much.

"Long live the Emperor!"

Cheers erupted from the crowd, oblivious to the somber occasion. The Unsullied and the City Watch promptly dispersed them.

Jon Clinton's remains were headed to the military academy on Rhaenys's Hill, where he would be laid to rest. His support for establishing various institutions in the city, and his myriad constructive suggestions during his tenure, made it one of his crowning achievements.

Thus, his burial in the King's Landing Military Academy held commemorative significance.

On the rain-washed streets, the sounds of hooves, carriage wheels, cheers, and reprimands intertwined, gradually fading into the vast curtain of rain.