A few days later.
Daeron led his party quietly back to King's Landing.
The Red Keep.
When King Aerys received the news, he was obstinate. "Let him do whatever he pleases. All I want is my dragon!"
After making his declaration, the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms went right back to mimicking a shepherd, clumsily shearing the wool off a sheep.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Varys couldn't bear to look.
He had no idea where the King had heard such peasant superstition—the belief that because dragons eat sheep, they must be fond of shepherds, too.
It was truly an affront to the dignity of the Crown.
---
Dragon's Rest Farm.
Daeron didn't head straight into the farm but stopped at the foot of the hill.
"Prince, please stand back," Ser Jon said as he returned to Daeron's side, lifting the curtain of a simple carriage.
Huddled in the corner of the carriage was a tiny, shriveled figure.
It was the woodswith—the Ghost of High Heart.
Ser Jon tapped the carriage frame with his scabbard, startling the small figure into curling up even tighter.
"Don't frighten her, Ser," Daeron stopped him immediately.
Barristan Selmy, a man of experience and patience, offered a suggestion. "My Prince, woodswitches are solitary creatures. We should find a quiet place to speak."
Daeron nodded.
They moved the carriage into the shade of the trees and dismissed the two Kingsguard stationed nearby.
After a long while, the Ghost of High Heart stopped trembling. She smoothed down her tattered robes, which were adorned with dried flowers, and muttered incessantly under her breath.
Daeron leaned in closer to hear her.
"A proud lion... damn him... insolent cur..." she whispered, cursing softly.
Daeron understood immediately.
When Jaime Lannister had tracked down the Ghost of High Heart, he clearly hadn't extended her any courtesy. He had simply bound her and hauled her back.
She evidently held quite a grudge against the Kingslayer.
Daeron approached slowly, keeping his voice soft. "My Lady, do you remember 'Jenny of Oldstones'?"
"Hmm?"
The tiny figure went stiff. Beneath the matted white hair that obscured her face, a pair of red eyes peered out.
Daeron continued, "And the Prince of Dragonflies, Duncan the Small. He wed Jenny and gave up a crown for her."
Over the past few days, Daeron had pieced together the Ghost's history. According to Barristan, during the reign of his great-grandfather, Aegon V, Prince Duncan had brought Jenny of Oldstones to court, and Jenny had brought her dear friend—this woodswith—along with her.
It was this very woman's prophecy that had prompted Daeron's father and mother to wed, in hopes of birthing the Prince That Was Promised. She had vanished only after the tragedy at Summerhall.
"Someone still remembers Jenny?"
The small figure sank into memory, grief for her lost friend washing over her. Both Prince Duncan and Jenny had perished in the flames of Summerhall.
Daeron revealed his identity. "Prince Duncan was my great-uncle."
"I know. I know who you are, child," the small figure said, her head drooping dejectedly. "Before that golden-haired bastard came knocking, I had a feeling I would be visiting old haunts again."
"I sent men to find you, though I fear their methods were somewhat crude." Daeron offered an apology, then asked, "How should I address you?"
He couldn't exactly keep calling her "The Ghost of High Heart."
The small figure thought for a moment, then spoke casually. "You may call me Crone."
"That is what the smallfolk call my kind, though I am merely a dwarf old woman toyed with by the Old Gods."
"Very well, Crone," Daeron agreed.
The Crone gradually relaxed. "Child, I have seen you in my dreams."
"What kind of dream?"
"Amidst smoke and salt, you were reborn from the fire, bringing back three hatchlings." The Crone looked bewildered. "I prophesied a Prince, but I did not expect him to come so soon."
Daeron remained silent.
The Prince That Was Promised was supposed to be his sister, Daenerys. But he had become the Unburnt, effectively rewriting history.
The Crone, seemingly senile, quickly forgot her confusion and asked, "You have your dragons. Why do you seek me?"
Daeron answered honestly.
He possessed a strange text—the language of the Junimos—that required the blessing of "Forest Magic" to decipher.
"A strange text?" The Crone smacked her lips. "Let me see."
Daeron opened his interface and transcribed a string of the garbled code from the sacrifice slot.
The Crone let out a surprised "Eh?" and studied it repeatedly. Finally, she said, "If you wish to learn this tongue, I can help you."
"You recognize it?" Daeron's eyes widened.
"No. It is a completely alien language," the Crone denied flatly.
Under Daeron's questioning, she explained further. While she didn't know the Junimo language, she could sense a familiar natural energy within it.
Ever since the Red Comet appeared in the sky, this natural energy had been born into the world. It was quiet, unnoticed by most, but she could find it. Through a specific potion, she could help him connect with it.
"Do you need me to provide the ingredients?" Daeron asked.
"No," the Crone shook her head. "I only need a quiet place to live. Give me some time, and I can gather the materials in the woods to brew the potion myself."
She despised being disturbed.
Daeron proposed building her a house in King's Landing or somewhere in the Bluegrass Hills.
The Crone refused.
Knowing that her kind was not welcome in the city, she asked only to settle on the edge of the Kingswood, in a simple thatched hut that would keep out the wind and rain.
Finally, Daeron asked one last question out of curiosity.
"Do you know any sorcery or spells?"
"No." The Crone shook her head again, but offered a warning. "But I can feel it. Your body contains a vast ocean of power. Part of it comes from your bloodline, and part from your own life force."
"If I were you, I would not dabble in hedge wizardry. It would only taint the purity of your blood and sap your vitality."
"It would be putting the cart before the horse."
Daeron asked, "Then how should I use this gift?"
"You are already using it."
The Crone looked toward the hilltop where the farm lay, her teeth chattering slightly. "I can feel them. Three sources of magic, pure and unadulterated."
The three dragon hatchlings were at the farm.
Daeron understood, mostly. She meant that commanding dragons was the ultimate expression of his power, and learning minor spells was unnecessary and dangerous.
I hate riddles, Daeron thought to himself.
Why did these mystical figures always have to speak in cryptic circles?
By now, the Crone was nodding off. "Leave the Riverlands. The power of the Old Gods does not reach here, so I might finally get a good night's sleep."
---
Back at the Farm.
Daeron finished his chores first, then went to feed the three hungry hatchlings.
Screee—!
Caraxes let out a sharp hiss, stretching his neck to sniff Daeron. Then, he began rubbing his long, serpentine neck against Daeron's clothes.
It was as if he was trying to scrub away a scent he didn't like.
"Easy now." Daeron didn't push him away, though he stumbled slightly from the force of the nudge.
Dragons were the guardians of House Targaryen.
Historically, many sickly Targaryen children became healthy and vibrant after bonding with a dragon. Even his father, Aerys, found his madness somewhat soothed after interacting with Toothless. Or perhaps he was just too busy pestering the dragon to go mad.
"Grow up fast," Daeron whispered, stroking Caraxes's long neck, understanding the dragon's unease.
He had noticed something else, too.
Ever since the three dragons had hatched, he hadn't had a single dream about the Three-Eyed Crow.
Dragonfire, it seemed, burned away all shadows.