The morning mist of Saltpans had yet to fully dissipate, and the dock planks were already swollen from the soaking tide. Daemon stood at the edge of the gangplank, watching The Cannibal crouched low by the mudflats. The dragon's pitch-black scales were dusted with fine salt grains, and every breath he took raised white mist.
Gael flew over on Dreamfyre. The pale blue she-dragon gently touched the food Mysaria offered with her nose tip, mist beads hanging on her silvery eyelashes.
"I say, if this wretched fog doesn't clear soon, Caraxes is going to doze off." Daemon Targaryen's voice drifted from far behind, carrying his usual carelessness.
He leaned on his carved cane, the bandage on his left leg faintly visible under his grey robe. His other hand scratched under Caraxes's jaw—the red dragon narrowed his eyes comfortably, his crimson scales showing dark patterns in the mist as a low purr rolled in his throat.
When Gael turned back, her brows furrowed slightly. "Didn't we agree you'd return to King's Landing after delivering the letter?" Her voice was light, but like a stone thrown into the fog. "Father sent you to the tower to 'recover,' not to follow us causing trouble."
Daemon Targaryen hissed exaggeratedly, leaning closer to Caraxes and deliberately tapping his cane on the planks. "Little Aunt's words are harsh. Look at my leg," he lifted the hem of his robe to reveal a linen-wrapped knee, "walking the path of faith, I might sink into the mud. Wouldn't I have to trouble Caraxes for a lift? Besides him," he patted the red dragon's neck, and Caraxes obligingly raised his head to let out a long roar at the foggy sky, the ending note trailing with grievance, "he's been stuck in the Dragonpit for a whole month. Can't he come out for some sun?"
Mysaria lowered her head to stifle a giggle but was stopped by a look from Gael. Daemon stepped forward, scanning the mudflats—the tide-receded mud gleamed darkly, and a winding path cut through the silt. That was the path of faith trodden by penitents, footprints of varying depths like strung riddles.
"Let him come," Daemon said to Gael, his tone compromising. "Once on the island, have Rupert and Leowyn watch him." He turned to his great-grandfather Daemon Targaryen, his gaze darkening with helplessness. "You behave yourself too; don't startle the people on the island."
Daemon Targaryen immediately straightened his back, patting his chest. "Don't worry! I'm here to atone—" Before he finished, he was staggered by a sweep of Caraxes's tail, drawing laughter from everyone.
When the ferry slowly left the dock, the fog finally thinned a little. The outline of the Quiet Isle appeared ahead, like a stone wrapped in moss.
In the terraced fields to the west, shadowy figures were working. Brown robes blended with green ridges; only the windmill blades turned slowly in the mist, making soft creaking sounds.
"People on the island don't speak?" Mysaria held the gunwale, watching the figures weeding with bowed heads, their movements uniform as puppets.
"Except for the Elder and the Proctors, they can only speak once every seven days." Ser Harys Cox of Saltpans stood aside, his cloak with the blue field and white bird sigil fluttering in the wind. "They say even confessions have to be held back, unless absolutely unclear." He pointed to the east side of the island, where the slopes were steep and desolate, twisted shrubs clinging to rocks. "Over there it's even quieter; not even windmills."
Daemon Targaryen was playing with Caraxes and curled his lip upon hearing this. "This isn't atonement; it's prison." Gael glared at him, and he shut his mouth tactfully, but secretly tapped a light rhythm on the red dragon's scales with his sword hilt. Caraxes bobbed his head, cooperatively tapping the beat with his claws.
When they landed, the Elder Brother was already waiting at the dock. The old man wore a wash-faded brown robe, hood covering most of his face, revealing only a grizzled beard and calm eyes. Behind him followed two Proctors, one with the lower half of his face wrapped in wool cloth, revealing only eyes like two deep pools.
"Prince Daemon." The Elder Brother's voice was hoarse, as if worn by sea wind. "Please follow me." Passing through the apple orchard, petals fell on brown robes, and the penitents didn't even lift their heads.
The spire of the wooden sept poked through the mist, leaded glass windows faintly emitting light. The carvings of the Father and Mother on the doors were blurred by sea wind erosion but remained solemn.
Daemon Targaryen stared at the sept's heptagonal spire. Just as he was about to ask something, Leowyn Corbray tugged his sleeve secretly—the boy held his sword, looking at him warily like a small beast guarding prey.
The sept smelled of pine resin. The benches were rough, candles on the Seven's altars burned quietly, wax tears accumulated thick.
The Elder Brother sat on a high-backed chair in the front row, gesturing for everyone to make themselves comfortable, while he closed his eyes, seemingly merging with the wooden sept.
Daemon pulled Gael toward the east side, Mysaria following behind.
The slope grew steeper, the wind carrying a salty tang that stung faces.
Gael stood on a protruding rock, pointing into the distance—the roofs of Saltpans were faintly visible in the mist, like shells sunk underwater.
"They say at high tide, the path of faith gets submerged," Gael whispered, her gaze on the mudflats where several depressions bubbled. "Sink in, and you never come out."
"That's why it's faith." Daemon held her hand, fingertips touching her cold ones. "You have to believe you can walk across."
When they returned to the dock, they saw from afar Daemon Targaryen squatting on the ground, using his scabbard to gesture something to a face-wrapped penitent, probably teaching him wood-chopping posture.
Rupert's face was red with anxiety, but he dared not make a sound, only signaling desperately to Daemon.
"Daemon Targaryen." Gael's voice turned cold. Daemon Targaryen jumped up like a cat whose tail was stepped on, his scabbard clanging to the ground. "I... I was helping him improve efficiency! Look how slow he chops..." Caraxes lowed, rubbing his head against his back as if pleading for mercy.
As the ferry left the shore, the Elder Brother and Proctors stood on the dock, figures shrinking in the mist.
Daemon Targaryen leaned on the gunwale, watching the Quiet Isle recede, and suddenly sighed. "Actually... not too bad."
Gael raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"At least better than being locked alone in a tower with no one to talk to." He scratched his head, rarely serious. "When my leg heals, then..." Cut off by Gael's look, he sheepishly changed the subject and went to tease Caraxes.
The fog thickened again, blurring the outline of Saltpans. Daemon watched the dragon shadows in the distance—The Cannibal's pitch black, Dreamfyre's pale blue, Caraxes's crimson, weaving into flowing light in the mist.
He knew that past this bay, the swamps and plains of the Riverlands lay ahead. There were the Tullys of Riverrun, the Freys of the Twins, and endless stories.
But at this moment, listening to the waves in the wind, looking at the people beside him, he suddenly felt this moment of tranquility was more precious than any clamor.
Dragon shadows swept through the mist layer, rolling the wind of the Quiet Isle into the dust of the road ahead.
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