Winds of the Bloody Gate

The gray stone archway of Bloody Gate resembled a frozen lightning bolt in the morning mist. As Daemon reined in the horse, the battlements on the steep cliffs on both sides gleamed coldly, and the arrow slits of the Watchtower faintly reflected the light of armor.

When Daemon's party arrived at the fortress guarding the Mountains of the Moon, the fortress knight's shout pierced the mountain silence, "Who wants to pass through the Bloody Gate?"

"Targaryen Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen of Targaryen Lineage, Princess Gael Targaryen, and Prince Daemon's followers," Rayford Rosby stepped forward, raising the scabbard of Blackfyre, "The prince is leading his entourage to the Riverlands, to tour the Seven Kingdoms."

The soldiers on the battlements remained silent for a moment, then the heavy clanging of iron chains echoed. The Stonebridge between the two Watchtower slowly lowered, the dull thud of gray stone colliding with the rock wall reverberating through the valley.

Daemon reined in his warhorse again. The Glutton's jet-black dragon scales gleamed coldly in the morning light, while Dreamfyre affectionately nuzzled Gael on its back—the girl was bending down to straighten the hem of her skirt that had been ruffled by the wind, her profile appearing exceptionally gentle in the mist.

"Knight of the Bloody Gate Lyonel welcomes Your Highness." A knight in rusty armor, stained with salt, emerged from behind the city gate, clearly having just returned from patrol. "Lord Yobert sent word that you would be passing through the Bloody Gate today."

Daemon nodded in acknowledgment, his gaze sweeping over the rock walls on either side. Two long retaining walls were embedded in the steep mountainside, their arrow slits densely packed like countless peering eyes.

The narrow mountain path could only accommodate four riders abreast. The surface was worn smooth by the horses' hooves, and dark red marks could be faintly seen—the blood of countless soldiers and horses over the centuries, soaking into this rock.

"As is customary, Your Highness, please don't mind, but the Bloody Gate was the first wall First Men, and even Hal Hall's army of the River Isles couldn't breach it." Seeing his focus on defense, Lyonel Ryan offered to explain, "When King Osric House Arryn V rebuilt it, he deliberately raised the Stonebridge three zhang (approximately 10 meters) off the ground. To break through, one must first learn to fly."

Daemon recalled the story of Queen Visenya riding Vhagar straight to the Eyrie, and a slight, inexplicable smile crept onto his lips, "Even the strongest door can't stop something that can fly."

Sir Lyonel paused for a moment, then burst into laughter. "Your Highness is right! When the Targaryen dragons arrive, no door will be of any use."

After 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 in front like a green carpet.

The group had barely traveled half a day when they encountered their first seeker—a young man carrying a battle axe, who claimed to be the illegitimate son of a knight from Sevenstars. He had half a bag of oat cakes in his arms and said he wanted to "make a name for himself" with His Highness.

"Stay." Daemon had Rayford arrange a spare horse for him. "You know how to use a battle axe?" The boy blushed. "I can chop wood, and I'm alright at fighting."

This was just the beginning. Over the next few days, the group grew like a snowball.

A second son of Ironoaks joined them with three servants and two carts of arrows, saying that his father wanted him to "see the world with the prince."

The two bastard sons of Grey Glen arrived together on a skinny horse, their armor rusted and peeling, yet they gripped their gleaming spears tightly.

Even the son of a merchant from Gulltown caught up with them, carrying a chest of silk and spices, saying he wanted to "serve as a peddler for His Highness's entourage," hoping to get a bit of "the dragon's luck."

"It's almost like a small army." Rayford exclaimed in astonishment as he counted the men. "There are more than twenty light knights alone, and nearly two hundred squires and skirmishers in total."

Daemon watched as the campfires in the camp merged into one in the night, Glutton and Dreamfyre lay on the distant hillside, and dragon breath occasionally lit up the night sky.

Rupert was teaching the newly joined boys to form ranks, while Myles Rivers was surrounded by a group of fishermen who listened to him recount the battle at Crab Claw Peninsula —the bastard son of Mooton Household had shed his timidity and spoke with eyes full of admiration as he described Daemon's single-handed slaying of the Wildlings leader.

"They're not here to follow you," Gael said, carrying a bowl of hot soup, with Mysaria following behind, holding folded bandages. "They're more like they're looking for an opportunity."

Daemon took the bowl of soup, the steam blurring his vision. He recalled the day he left King's King's Landing Glutton, when there were only a few squires and guards on the Kingsroad, but now he had a force capable of charging into battle.

Among these people, some wanted to escape their status as illegitimate children, some wanted to win honor for their families, and some simply felt that "following the dragon is definitely the right thing to do." But the way they looked at him carried the same familiar thing—trust. The group of teenagers who followed him to raise the banner of rebellion back then were no exception.

"Saltpans is just ahead," Colin Celtigar shouted, pointing to the distant coastline on the evening of the fifth day.

His nautical experience came in handy at this moment, allowing him to recognize the port simply by the outline of the masts.

Daemon looked in the direction he pointed. Crab Bay's blue waters shimmered with gold in the setting sun. A square fortress stood on the shore, its walls not high but very thick, like a loaf of bread swollen from being soaked in seawater.

Several fishing boats were moored in the harbor, and the fishermen were busy hauling in their nets. The laughter of children drifted on the wind, mingling with the salty smell of the sea.

"The House Cox's territory." Rayford flipped through the register of lords he carried with him. "Property knights, not exactly high-ranking nobles, but supposedly quite wealthy—they control the town's saltworks and fish farms."

As soon as the group reached the town entrance, a messenger dressed in a red robe rode up to greet them.

His mount, panting heavily, had clearly traveled a long distance. Upon seeing Daemon's banner, he immediately dismounted and knelt on one knee. "Your Highness! The messenger from Dragonstone has been waiting for you for three days!"

Daemon's heart skipped a beat, and he was about to ask a question when he heard a familiar dragon's roar coming from the sky.

The Glutton cautiously raised its head, while the Dreamfyre stirred restlessly—a scarlet shadow was swooping down from the clouds, its dragon scales gleaming blindingly in the setting sun.

"Caraxes!" Gael cried out. That's Daemon Targaryen. As the red dragon landed on the open ground outside the town, a familiar figure leaped off its back—wearing black leather armor, a longsword at his waist, his left leg slightly lame, yet still exuding that untamed spirit.

"Yo, Little Daemon, we've been waiting for you." Daemon Targaryen grinned, his cane tapping the ground with a crisp sound, clearly indicating his leg injury hadn't fully healed. "Your party is quite impressive, much more impressive than me 'recovering' alone in King's Landing."

Daemon dismounted, frowning at his leg. "Your leg isn't healed yet, how did you manage to ride a dragon?"

"Who dares disobey the Crown Prince's orders?" Daemon Targaryen waved his hand dismissively, then lowered his voice, "Besides, it's worth it to get some fresh air, even if I'm limping."

He stepped closer and said mysteriously, "I'll let you in on a secret: my father used the excuse of delivering a letter to let me run away. The old man thought I was recuperating in the tower."

Gael stepped forward, her smile fading slightly, "Big Daemon, what message did Baelon ask you to deliver?"

When Daemon Targaryen saw her, he instinctively shrank back, and the arrogance on his face instantly vanished. "Hello, Auntie... The letter is here." He quickly pulled a roll of parchment from his pocket, his hand trembling slightly as he handed it over.

Daemon forced a smile as he took the letter, Gael had already turned to Mysaria and said, "Little Mei, go see if there's a clean hotel in town and arrange a room for Daemon to recover." Her tone was gentle, but her eyes were like ice—ever since that incident on Silk Street, she had always felt that this unreliable guy would lead her Little Daemon astray.

Daemon Targaryen, feeling like he'd been granted a pardon, quickly followed Mysaria, leaning on his cane. Before leaving, Messaria winked at Daemon, her lips silently saying, "Talk to you tonight."

Daemon unfolded the parchment; Baelon's handwriting was vigorous and powerful.

"To my nephew, Little Daemon:"

I am very pleased to hear that you have accomplished great feats in the Vale after Crab Claw Peninsula. Otto Hightower impeached you before the King for "gathering an army and interfering in local affairs," and Lyman Beesbury is also making a fuss, saying that your tours have been too costly—ignore them. With me King's Landing, no one in the Seven Kingdoms can move the Targaryen prince with a few empty words.

I've heard about what you said at Heart's Home, "Fifth-generation descendant of the the Conqueror, grandson of the the Conciliator, son of Aemon, nephew of Baelon." Those five words, "nephew of Baelon," make me happier than any reward. If your father were alive, he would be proud of you.

Continue your journey, tread the lands of the Seven Kingdoms under your feet, and remember the voices of your vassals. There's no need to rush back to King's King's Landing; I haven't reached the point where I need your return to "save the day."

My nephew, my "youngest son," may you always be invincible and shine brightly.

Your eternal support

Uncle Baelon

The last few words were written with heavy ink, as if the pen tip had been deliberately applied with force. Daemon held the parchment tightly, his eyes slightly warm.

"What are you looking at? So moved?" A voice came from behind. Daemon Targaryen had returned sometime earlier, his cane leaning against the wall, a glass of ale he'd gotten from the inn in his hand. "Did Father praise me?"

Daemon put the letter away, glaring at him irritably. "Praising you for daring to ride a dragon even with a limp."

"That's right, Caraxes is so good. He knows my leg isn't good, so he deliberately lands a half-beat slower." Daemon Targaryen proudly raised his chin, then complained, "Seriously, Little Daemon, you're not being fair! You didn't call me when you were hunting the Wildlings on Crab Claw Peninsula, and you didn't take me along for such a big event as the Vale Alliance. Do you think my lame leg is a burden?"

"The situation was urgent," Daemon explained, "And they were just some insignificant Wildlings..."

Before he could finish speaking, Daemon Targaryen's hand, which was gripping the wall, suddenly trembled, and he staggered to the side, his playful expression instantly turning into tension.

Daemon turned around and saw Gael standing in the doorway, a gentle smile on her face, but her eyes were like two small knives, shooting straight at Daemon Targaryen.

"Big Daemon, your leg isn't healed yet, why don't you rest more?" Gael stepped forward, naturally taking Daemon's arm, her tone saccharine. "Mysaria said the hotel bed is quite soft, would you like me to have someone add another blanket for you?"

Daemon Targaryen swallowed hard, waving his hands repeatedly, "No, no! I just came to say a few words to Little Daemon, and I'll be gone right away!" He practically grabbed his cane as if fleeing, "Um... the letter has been delivered, I'll go back to my room to rest my leg first, you guys talk, you guys talk."

Watching his disheveled figure, Daemon finally couldn't help but laugh out loud. Gael playfully slapped him. "What are you laughing at? Getting too close to him never ends well. Last time on Silk Street..."

"I understand." Daemon grasped her hand, the warmth of his palm dispelling the evening chill. "He's just here to deliver a message; he'll be returning to King's Landing tomorrow."

Gael nodded in satisfaction and turned her gaze to the window. The port of Saltpans was already lit up, and the shadows of fishing boats swayed on the water like a flock of quiet water birds.

Glutton, Dreamfyre, and Caraxes lay on the sand dunes outside the town, the breath of the three dragons condensing into white mist in the night sky, intertwining with the starlight.

"Earl Cox of Saltpans sent someone to ask if you'd like to stay at the castle," Mysaria said as she entered, carrying a cloak. "He said the inns in town are too simple and might not be comfortable for Your Highness and the Princess."

"No need," Daemon said, taking the cloak and draping it over Gael's shoulders. "We'll stay at the inn and go to the port tomorrow." He remembered what Baelon had written in his letter, "Uncle is handling things in King's Landing's Landing; we'll move on."

Gael looked up at him, the worry in her eyes gradually fading, leaving only trust. "Wherever you go, I'll go."

In the dead of night, the sound of waves crashing against the rocks in Saltpans was exceptionally clear.

Daemon stood by the inn window, watching the campfire in the camp gradually die down, with only the Glutton, Dreamfyre, and Caraxes's dragon breath occasionally flickering, like three guardian stars.

The sound of snoring came from the room next door, where Daemon Targaryen was clearly fast asleep—this troublesome great-grandfather "cousin" was now like a harmless child.

He took out Baelon's letter and read it again by the moonlight. The words "Eternal Support" seemed to carry the sea breeze of Dragonstone, warm and resolute.

Otto Hightower's impeachment and Lyman Beesbury's complaints seemed like the buzzing of mosquitoes in the face of this support.

"I'll go check out Quiet Isle tomorrow," Daemon said to himself. He remembered there was such an island in the bay outside Saltpans, said to be inhabited by a group of silent monks. Perhaps there, he could temporarily forget King's Landing's Landing's schemes and only think about the path ahead.

The stars outside the window gradually thinned out, and the east began to lighten with the first light of dawn. Daemon knew that after crossing Crab Bay and entering the Trident, the rivers and plains of the Riverlands awaited him, where countless stories and challenges lay ahead.

But at this moment, he felt only peace—like the wind of the Bloody Gate, no matter how fierce it is when it passes through the canyon, it always becomes gentle when it reaches the plains.

His team will carry this peace and strength as they continue forward.