"Saltpans lies just across the water."
Septon Meribald gestured toward the northern horizon of the bay, the sea breeze catching the hem of his threadbare robes like a faded, salt-crusted banner.
"The brothers will ferry us across with the morning tide. Though, truth be told, I fear what we shall find on those shores. Let us have a hot meal before we cross; the brothers never begrudge a dog his scrap."
Dog, as if understanding the Septon's words, wagged his tail enthusiastically and let out a bark that echoed across the desolate coast. The tide was retreating now, the water pulling back like a stallion slipping its tether, revealing a vast expanse of glistening, brown mudflats. The air was thick with the scent of brine and the pungent rot of the deep.
"If you wish to sleep beneath a roof tonight, you must dismount and follow me across the mire," Meribald said, his voice dropping into a somber register. "We call it the Path of Faith. Only those with a clear conscience find the firm ground. The wicked are swallowed by the quicksand or drowned when the tide rushes back."
He looked at his companions. "Your hearts are light, I trust? Even so, I must find the way with care. Tread only where I tread."
Brienne of Tarth stared at the mud, her brow furrowed. The path Meribald took was anything but direct. Though the Isle rose to the northwest, the Septon turned east, wading deeper into the bay where the water seemed darkest. He paused every few steps, testing the silt with his staff. Dog trailed at his heels, sniffing at every shell and clump of kelp with an uncharacteristic wariness.
Brienne followed, her eyes locked on the prints left by the dog, the donkey, and the Septon. Behind her came Podrick, with Ser Hyle Hunt bringing up the rear.
After a hundred yards, Meribald turned sharply south, his back to their destination. They passed between two shallow tide pools. Dog plunged his nose into one, only to shriek as a crab clamped onto his snout. A brief, frantic struggle ensued before the dog emerged muddy and triumphant, a crushed crab in his jaws.
"Are we actually going to the Isle?" Ser Hyle shouted from the rear, his voice laced with annoyance. "It feels as though we're walking in circles to avoid the point."
"This is the Path, Ser," Meribald said patiently. "Faith is rarely a straight line. It requires persistence and the humility to look where the Father points, not where your own eyes wander."
They scrambled over the line of driftwood and sea-worn stones that ringed the Isle. A figure waited for them at the crest. He wore the rough, undyed wool of a brother, with bell-shaped sleeves and a deep cowl.
"Brother Meribald," the man boomed. "It gladdens the heart to see friends on the shore. Welcome to you and yours."
Dog wagged his tail as Meribald scraped the muck from his boots. "Have you had many travelers of late, Brother Miles?"
"Friar Ray and his company passed through not long ago. A woman of war, a knight, a boy, and a brother. Seeing your party, I feel as though history is repeating itself."
As they walked toward the cloisters, Ser Hyle offered a cynical smirk. "When did women-at-arms become so common in the Riverlands?"
"Perhaps when the world became so broken that even the Mother's daughters had to pick up steel to survive," Meribald replied softly. "The Lady Brienne is hunting the Hound."
Miles stiffened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his eyes. "Is she? And why hunt a dead man?"
Brienne's hand drifted to the pommel of Oathkeeper. "For justice."
The Proctor studied her, noting the height and the breadth of her shoulders. "You are strong for a woman. You should speak with the Elder. But he is at Saltpans today. I can take you across in the morning."
"Saltpans?" Meribald asked, his worry deepening. "I heard the town was ash."
"It was," Miles said, looking toward the northern shore. "But even scorched earth yields a harvest if the sun is bright enough. A noble leader brought his host to clear the outlaws. He brought refugees to rebuild on the ruins and left his own soldiers to work the stone alongside them. Elder Perry and half our brothers are there now, mending souls while the soldiers mend the walls. We have plenty of room in the cloisters tonight."
"Did Ser Quincy call for aid from the capital?" Meribald asked. "I heard Lord Tarly remained at Maidenpool."
"The Lions of the West do not care for Saltpans," Miles spat. "It was the Lightbringer of the Gods Eye. When he heard of the massacre, he rode day and night from St. Maur's. Ser Quincy has accepted his protection... and his Law."
"The Lightbringer," Meribald whispered, a smile touching his lips. "I know of him. I heard him speak at the monastery a year ago."
"Can a knight give a sermon?" Ser Hyle asked, incredulous.
"He is no knight, nor septon, nor maester," Meribald explained. "But his power can topple walls, and his wisdom is as deep as the sunset sea. Only 'Lightbringer' fits the man."
After a dinner of crab stew and fresh bread, the party was separated.
"You and the boy will share a cell, Ser Hyle," Brother Miles directed. "It is small, but dry."
"I stay with the Ser," Podrick said, then corrected himself quickly, "I mean, the Lady."
"Whatever your habits are on the road, they stay on the road," Miles said sternly. "On the Quiet Isle, men and women do not share a roof unless wed. We have a cottage for women travelers on the east slope."
Brienne nodded, though a pang of loneliness struck her. She had grown used to the rhythm of the road—teaching Podrick the sword by the fire while Ser Hyle offered his biting commentary and Meribald prayed.
The cottage was a stone beehive, small and windowless, facing the cold winds of the Bay of Crabs. Inside was a straw bed, a fur blanket, a basin of water, and a jug of cider.
Brienne sat on the edge of the bed, the silence of the Isle weighing on her. She thought of her quest. Catelyn Stark was dead at Riverrun. Sansa's brothers were ghosts. Tyrion Lannister was a fugitive. Lysa Arryn had been thrown from the Moon Door by a singer.
I promised Jaime, she thought, touching the hilt of the sword he had named Oathkeeper. I must find the girl before the Queen's hunters do. Success or the grave.
The next morning, a young apprentice woke her at first light. Brienne dressed in her blue steel plate and met her companions at the northern dock.
As they boarded the ferry, Brienne looked toward the mainland. Instead of the plume of black smoke she expected, she saw a hive of industry.
"Look at that," Ser Hyle noted, pointing to the shore.
Hundreds of men were hauling stone from the ruins of the keep. The sound of rhythmic hammering drifted across the water. It wasn't the sound of war, but the sound of a city being born from its own ashes. The Golden Dawn had arrived at Saltpans, and the Riverlands would never be the same.
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