The grey stone arch bridge of the Bloody Gate looked like a solidified lightning bolt in the morning mist. When Daemon pulled on his reins, the battlements on the perilous cliffs on both sides gleamed coldly, armor reflecting faintly from behind the arrow slits of the watchtowers.
When Daemon's retinue arrived at this natural barrier guarding the Mountains of the Moon, the challenging shout of the castellan knight pierced the mountain silence: "Who wishes to pass the Bloody Gate?"
"Prince Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen, Princess Gael Targaryen, and Prince Daemon's followers," Rayford Rosby stepped forward, holding high the scabbard of Blackfyre. "The Prince leads his retinue to the Riverlands for a tour of the Seven Kingdoms."
The garrison on the battlements was silent for a moment, followed by the heavy sound of chains. The stone bridge between the two watchtowers lowered slowly, the muffled thud of grey stone hitting rock echoing in the valley.
Daemon tightened his reins again. In the sky, The Cannibal's pitch-black scales shimmered coldly in the morning light, while Dreamfyre affectionately rubbed her head against Gael on her back—the girl was arranging her skirt hem messed by the wind, her profile looking exceptionally soft in the mist.
"Ser Ryan, Knight of the Bloody Gate, welcomes the Prince." A knight in rusty armor walked out from behind the gate. His armor was stained with salt, clearly having just rushed from patrol duty. "Lord Yorbert sent word long ago that you would pass the Bloody Gate today."
Daemon nodded in greeting, his gaze sweeping the cliffs on both sides. Two long parapets were embedded in the steep rock face, densely packed with arrow slits like countless peeping eyes.
The narrow mountain path only allowed four riders abreast. The road surface was worn smooth by hooves, with faint dark red traces visible—the blood of countless armies over centuries soaking these rocks.
"A routine inquiry by tradition; please do not mind, Prince. The Bloody Gate is the first wall built by the First Men; even Harwyn Hoare's river armies couldn't breach it." Seeing his interest in the defenses, Ser Ryan proactively introduced, "When Osric Arryn V rebuilt it, he specifically made the stone bridge three yards above the ground. To attack, one must learn to fly first."
Daemon recalled the story of Queen Visenya flying Vhagar straight to the Eyrie, the corner of his mouth turning up inexplicably. "Even the strongest gate cannot stop things that fly."
Ser Ryan froze, then laughed loudly. "The Prince speaks truly! When Targaryen dragons come, no gate is of use."
Passing through the Bloody Gate, the mountain path gradually widened. The outline of the Mountains of the Moon receded behind, and the plains of the Riverlands spread out ahead like a green carpet.
Less than half a day after leaving, the retinue encountered the first person coming to join—a boy carrying a battle axe, claiming to be the bastard of a knight from Sevenstars, clutching half a bag of oatcakes, saying he wanted to "make a name" with the Prince.
"Stay," Daemon had Rayford arrange a spare horse for him. "Can you use the axe?" The boy blushed. "I can chop wood, and fighting is okay too."
This was just the beginning. Over the next few days, the retinue expanded like a snowball.
A second son from Ironoaks joined with three squires and two carts of arrows, saying his father wanted him to "see the world with the Prince";
Two bastards from Greyglen arrived riding a skinny horse together, their armor rusting away but clutching polished spears tightly;
Even a merchant's son from Gulltown caught up, carrying a chest of silk and spices, saying he wanted to be a "camp peddler for the Prince's retinue," just hoping to catch some "dragon luck."
"It's almost catching up to a small army," Rayford clicked his tongue when counting heads. "Over twenty knights alone, and squires plus loose soldiers add up to nearly two hundred."
Daemon watched the campfires connecting into a sheet in the night. The Cannibal and Dreamfyre lay on a distant hillside, dragon breath occasionally lighting up the night sky.
Rupert was teaching the newly joined boys formations. Mycah Rivers was surrounded by a group of fishermen, listening to him tell of the battle on Crackclaw Point—the bastard of House Mooton had shed his timidity, his eyes full of worship when describing Daemon cleaving the wildling chief single-handedly.
"They aren't here to follow you," Gael walked over with a bowl of hot soup, Mysaria following behind holding folded bandages. "They are more likely here seeking a chance."
Daemon took the soup bowl, steam blurring his vision. He remembered the day he left King's Landing on The Cannibal with only a few squires and guards. Now he had a force capable of charging into battle.
Among these people, some wanted to shed their bastard status, some wanted to earn honor for their families, and some simply felt "following a dragon can't be wrong." But the look in their eyes when they looked at him held the same familiar thing—trust. The group of youths who followed him to raise the rebel banner back then was not lacking in this either.
"Saltpans is ahead," Corlin Celtigar shouted, pointing to the distant coastline on the evening of the fifth day.
His sailing experience came in handy now, recognizing the port just by the outline of masts.
Daemon looked in the direction he pointed. The azure waves of the Bay of Crabs glittered gold in the setting sun. A square fortress stood by the coast, walls not high but very thick, like bread swollen by seawater.
Several fishing boats were moored in the harbor. Fishermen were busy hauling nets, children's laughter drifting over with the wind, mixed with the salty sea smell.
"Territory of House Cox," Rayford flipped through his portable roster of lords. "Landed knights, not great nobles, but said to be quite wealthy—the town's salt pans and fisheries are under their control."
Just as the retinue arrived at the town entrance, a messenger in a red robe rode up to meet them.
His mount was panting heavily, clearly having run a long way. Seeing Daemon's banner, he dismounted immediately and knelt on one knee: "Prince! A messenger from Dragonstone has been waiting for you for three days!"
Daemon's heart stirred. Just as he was about to ask, a familiar dragon roar came from the sky.
The Cannibal looked up alertly, and Dreamfyre became restlessly agitated—a crimson shadow was diving down from the clouds, scales dazzlingly bright in the sunset.
"Caraxes!" Gael cried out. That was Daemon Targaryen. When the Blood Wyrm landed in the clearing outside town, a familiar figure jumped off the dragon's back—wearing black leather armor, longsword at his waist, left leg slightly limping but still carrying that unruly air.
"Yo, Little Daemon, finally waited for you." Daemon Targaryen grinned, his cane making a crisp sound on the ground, clearly his leg injury wasn't fully healed. "Your retinue is truly majestic, much more so than me 'recovering' alone in King's Landing."
Daemon dismounted, frowning at his leg. "Your leg isn't healed; how are you riding a dragon?"
"Who dares disobey the Crown Prince's orders?" Daemon Targaryen waved his hand dismissively, then lowered his voice. "Besides, getting out for fresh air is worth it even if I limp."
He leaned in closer, whispering mysteriously, "Secretly telling you, Father let me run out under the pretext of delivering a letter. The Old Man still thinks I'm recovering in the tower."
Gael walked forward, the smile on her face fading a few degrees. "Big Daemon, what letter did Brother Baelon ask you to bring?"
Seeing her, Daemon Targaryen subconsciously shrank his neck, the arrogance on his face instantly retracted by half. "Hello, Little Aunt... the letter is here." He quickly pulled a roll of parchment from his tunic, his hand shaking slightly as he handed it over.
Daemon took the letter, suppressing a laugh. Gael had already turned to Mysaria: "Mysa, go see if there's a clean inn in town. Arrange a room for Daemon to recover." Her tone was gentle, but her eyes were like quenched ice—since the incident on the Street of Silk, she always felt this unreliable fellow would lead her Little Daemon astray.
Daemon Targaryen felt granted amnesty, hurriedly following Mysaria with his cane. Before leaving, he winked at Daemon, mouthing silently: "Chat tonight."
Daemon unfurled the parchment. Baelon's handwriting was bold and powerful:
"To be opened by my nephew Little Daemon:
I heard you achieved remarkable merits in the Vale after Crackclaw Point; I am very gratified. Otto Hightower impeached you in the Small Council for 'privately gathering armed forces and interfering in local affairs,' and Lyman Beesbury was noisy too, saying your tour costs are excessive—pay them no mind. I am in King's Landing. In all the Seven Kingdoms, no one can touch a Prince of Targaryen with just a few empty words.
I heard what you said at Heart's Home: 'Great-great-grandson of the Conqueror, grandson of the Conciliator, son of Aemon, nephew of Baelon.' The words 'nephew of Baelon' make me happier than any reward. If your father were here, he would be proud of you.
Continue your tour. Tread the lands of the Seven Kingdoms under your feet, keep the voices of the vassals in your heart. No need to rush back to King's Landing; I haven't reached the point where I need you back to 'save the scene.'
My nephew, my 'youngest son,' may you be forever invincible and shine brightly.
Your eternal shield,
Uncle Baelon"
The ink on the last few words was heavy, as if the pen tip had pressed down hard. Daemon held the parchment, his eyes growing slightly hot.
"What are you looking at? So moved?" A voice came from behind. Daemon Targaryen had returned unnoticed, leaning his cane against the wall, holding a cup of ale begged from the inn. "Did Father praise me?"
Daemon put away the letter, glaring at him grumpily. "Praised you for daring to ride a dragon with a lame leg."
"That's right, Caraxes is very well-behaved. He knows my leg is bad, so he landed a beat slower on purpose." Daemon Targaryen lifted his chin smugly, then started complaining. "Seriously, Little Daemon, you're not a good friend! Didn't call me for fighting wildlings on Crackclaw Point, didn't take me for the big scene with the Vale coalition. Do you despise me for being a cripple and dragging you down?"
"The situation was urgent," Daemon explained. "And they were just some insignificant wildlings..."
Before he could finish, Daemon Targaryen's hand on the wall trembled violently. He stumbled aside, the grin on his face instantly turning into nervousness.
Daemon looked back to see Gael standing at the door, wearing a gentle smile, but her eyes shooting straight at Daemon Targaryen like two small knives.
"Big Daemon, your leg isn't healed. Why not rest more?" Gael walked forward, naturally linking arms with Daemon Blackfyre, her tone cloyingly sweet. "Mysaria says the inn bed is quite soft. Shall I have someone add another quilt for you?"
Daemon Targaryen swallowed, waving his hands frantically. "No need, no need! I just came to say two words to Little Daemon. Leaving right after, leaving right after!" He grabbed his cane almost as if fleeing. "Um... letter delivered. I'll go back to my room to rest my leg. You chat, you chat."
Watching his wretched retreating figure, Daemon finally couldn't help laughing out loud. Gael slapped him reproachfully. "What are you laughing at? Nothing good comes from getting too close to him. Last time on the Street of Silk..."
"I know." Daemon held her hand, the warmth of her palm dispelling the evening chill. "He just came to deliver a letter this time; he'll return to King's Landing tomorrow."
Only then did Gael nod in satisfaction, turning her gaze out the window. Lights had lit up in the port of Saltpans. Fishing boat shadows swayed on the water like a flock of quiet water birds.
The Cannibal, Dreamfyre, and Caraxes lay on the dunes outside town. The breath of the three giant dragons condensed into white mist in the night sky, interweaving with the starlight.
"Lord Cox of Saltpans sent someone to ask if you want to stay in the castle," Mysaria walked in from outside, holding a cloak. "He says the town inn is too simple, afraid of slighting the Prince and Princess."
"No need." Daemon took the cloak and draped it over Gael's shoulders. "We'll stay at the inn. Tomorrow we'll visit the port." He remembered Baelon's words in the letter. "Uncle is handling things in King's Landing; we keep moving forward."
Gael looked up at him, the worry in her eyes fading, leaving only trust. "Where you go, I go."
Late at night in Saltpans, the sound of waves crashing on the rocks was exceptionally clear.
Daemon stood at the inn window, watching the campfires gradually die out. Only the dragon breath of The Cannibal, Dreamfyre, and Caraxes lit up occasionally, like three guardian stars.
Snoring came from Daemon Targaryen's room next door; clearly, he was fast asleep—this trouble-making great-grandfather "cousin" seemed like a harmless child at this moment.
He took out Baelon's letter and read it again by moonlight. The words "Your eternal shield" seemed to carry the sea breeze of Dragonstone, warm and firm.
Otto Hightower's impeachment, Lyman Beesbury's complaints—in the face of this support, they seemed like the buzzing of mosquitoes.
"Tomorrow, visit the Quiet Isle," Daemon said to himself. He remembered there was such a small island in the bay outside Saltpans, said to be inhabited by silent brothers. Perhaps there, he could temporarily forget the calculations of King's Landing and just think about the road beneath his feet.
The stars outside the window gradually thinned, and the east turned pale. Daemon knew that after crossing the Bay of Crabs into the Trident, the rivers and plains of the Riverlands awaited him, along with countless stories and challenges.
But at this moment, his heart held only peace—like the wind of the Bloody Gate, no matter how violent passing through the gorge, it always became gentle upon reaching the plain.
And his retinue would carry this peace and strength, continuing forward.
---