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The incandescent dawn reflected against her skin, and the gentle breeze lashed at her face. The girl inhaled the sweet scent of a nearby flower bed while trying to tame the strands of hair that insisted on curling at the nape of her neck. Her eyes moved from one point to another with impressive speed; she knew every tree and every plant in those woods as well as she knew her own body. After thirteen years, she had become intertwined with the beauty of the forest rather than something separate from it. There was something of her spirit in the trees that surrounded her, in the streams and in the beating wings of startled birds, as though they were always in communion. This was her home, her place.
Few dared to enter the forest.
"Nature is not for the weak."
The memory of her mother was distant, from before she had reached her tenth nameday. She had been a very loving figure to the girl and the one who taught her everything she knew, just as her father had done decades before. When she was a child, her mother used to tell stories of warriors, dragons, and how even the bravest men hesitated to take a life. The first time she killed an animal—and every time thereafter—the girl would close her eyes and thank it for its sacrifice, praying that its spirit would return to the forest, free.
Though she respected nature and nature respected her, the men from the nearby villages and farms whispered stories of ancient spirits, voices echoing among the trees at nightfall, and shadows walking where no one stood. They said the woods were haunted; a cursed place abandoned even by the Seven Gods.
The girl had never understood those fears.
As far as her feet could carry her—and they had carried her farther than most men would dare dream—she had never found any sign of another soul besides her own. No ghosts. No monsters hidden beneath the morning mist.
On the rare occasions she heard human voices crossing the silence of the forest, she was the one who felt afraid. Retreating into the bushes with the speed of a startled bird, she vanished before they could see her. To the men, the woods hid specters; to her, it was the men who appeared as intruders in a world that did not belong to them.
The red wolf, who less than a winter ago had been a small creature with ribs showing beneath his fur, leapt in front of her. She had brought him home—fed him, treated the wound on his paw with a mixture of herbs—and he had never left her side afterward.
He was a beautiful creature, yes.
But terribly stubborn.
Remus, as she had come to call him, had become her shadow. He followed her wherever she went; he jumped onto the cabin counter and ran off with a piece of meat in his mouth, tail wagging as if to say, "Come on, try to catch me!"
The girl tried to be firm with him, but most of the time she could not resist his antics.
Perhaps, in another life, she would have been born a wolf.
She could imagine no better fate.
Remus approached, wagging his tail; the girl no longer needed to crouch down to scratch his ears as she had done so many times before. He was a large wolf now, large enough that she only had to extend her hand to stroke his head.
She pulled away when she felt him lick her hand.
"Remus!" she complained, though there was no real irritation in her voice. "You know it's difficult to clean afterward!"
That did not seem to bother the creature.
On the contrary, Remus simply wound himself around her legs. Sometimes he behaved more like a cat than a wolf.
She nearly fell to the ground.
"Come on," she said. "Let's find some mushrooms for tonight's dinner."
And, of course, he followed.
Together they walked deeper into the woods. Their footsteps were silent, like those of a little servant. A servant carrying a basket woven from willow branches and accompanied by a red wolf.
The earth was still damp from the previous night's rain.
She loved the scent the forest gave off; the only thing that surpassed it was lemon balm tea.
Her favorite.
Perfect for a good night's sleep.
Remus liked it too, though not because of the tea itself, but because of the treats she always gave him.
As the minutes passed, the basket filled with herbs and spices. Her hands were dirty with soil now, and she clapped them together in hopes of removing the excess. The hardest part was always her nails—she never managed to clean them completely.
Distracted, she was brought back by one of Remus's growls.
"What is it?" she whispered, freezing in place.
Remus raised his ears.
His breathing quickened as he drew in long breaths of air, and a low, guttural growl emerged from deep within his chest.
There was something there.
A beast.
A shadow hidden among the trees.
Something the forest was sheltering.
And then she saw it.
There, collapsed beneath a thin layer of grass in the heart of the woods, was a body.
A boy.
Curled up, his face resting on his knees, trembling. Blood seeped through his pale fingers. His hair was as white as freshly fallen snow, and although she could not yet see his eyes, she knew what color they would be.
Amethyst.
A dragon.
A Targaryen.
She was not ignorant; she knew the stories of kings and dragonriders. The beating of their wings was like a hurricane over the forest. She had never seen one of those beasts herself, but the mere mention of them was enough to make the hairs on her arms stand on end.
But there was no dragon accompanying this Targaryen.
He looked more like her than the golden-armored knights she used to imagine when she was a child.
One second passed, then another.
Violet eyes met hers.
For an instant, the girl thought she saw relief.
Then he buried it beneath a hard expression.
He lifted his head so quickly that his vision darkened for a moment.
A voice.
He had heard a voice.
Not the snapping of branches.
Not the wind passing through the treetops.
Not the distant howl of some creature.
A voice.
Human.
His heart leapt.
For one absurd moment, he thought perhaps the knights had found him. Perhaps Ser Criston was there. Perhaps someone had finally noticed he was gone.
But the hope died as soon as his eyes found the figure standing among the trees.
It was a girl.
She looked about his age, perhaps a little younger. Her clothes were simple, very different from the fine fabrics that filled the halls of the Red Keep. Her hair was tousled by the wind, and there was dirt beneath her nails.
Beside her, sitting like a sentinel, was an enormous red wolf.
Aemond felt his entire body stiffen.
Instinctively, he tried to back away.
A sharp pain shot through his leg.
He gritted his teeth.
Wonderful.
Perfect.
Lost in an unfamiliar forest, bleeding, and now facing a girl accompanied by a wolf that looked large enough to tear off his arm.
This was ridiculous.
"Who are you?" he asked. "What do you want?"
His voice came out weaker than he intended.
For a moment, she simply watched him.
Aemond had the strange feeling that he was being studied.
Like a rare animal.
It irritated him immediately.
He had spent his entire life being watched, evaluated, compared. First to his brothers. Then to his nephews.
He did not need that from some stranger who had emerged from the middle of the woods.
"I live here," she replied.
He frowned.
"Here?"
The girl nodded.
"In the forest."
The answer was so absurd that he almost forgot the pain.
No one lived in forests.
People lived in castles, keeps, villages, and cities.
Not among trees.
"No one lives here."
"I do."
The certainty in her voice made him hesitate.
She was not lying.
At least, it did not seem so.
The wolf stepped closer.
The creature watched every one of his movements.
Its golden eyes never blinked.
"That's a wolf."
"Yes."
"A real wolf."
For the first time, a smile appeared on her lips.
Small.
Amused.
"Is there another kind?"
For some reason, that irritated him even more.
His fingers remained clenched around the branch.
Only then did she notice the amount of blood running down his leg.
"You're hurt."
His expression hardened immediately.
"I'm fine."
He wasn't.
Not even close.
Aemond rose with difficulty. The fall had been a bad one; he could feel every muscle in his leg pulling as blood ran down his knee.
He looked around and cursed quietly.
Trees.
More trees.
He had no idea where he was.
In his fury after yet another cruel joke from Aegon about not having a dragon, he remembered little beyond marching aimlessly into the woods.
Now he was lost in an unfamiliar forest, bleeding from a ridiculous fall and, to complete the humiliation, still without a dragon.
What a wonderful day.
"You should clean that," she said, and Aemond let out a dry laugh. "I have some herbs in my cabin that could help."
Aemond stared at the creature.
Remus stared at Aemond.
The wolf seemed considerably more sensible than his owner.
The girl pointed to his leg again.
"It'll get infected."
"It won't."
"It will."
"It won't."
With an exasperated sigh, Aemond leaned against a tree and tried to take a few steps.
If he found a trail, he could return.
If he found a stream, he could wash the wound.
If he found anyone remotely normal, it would be a significant improvement.
He took one step.
Then another.
On the third, a stab of pain shot through his leg.
His knee gave way.
For one humiliating instant, he thought he would fall, but he managed to regain his balance at the last moment.
Behind him, the girl remained silent—which was somehow worse than if she had laughed.
Aemond closed his eyes and counted to three.
When he opened them again, she was still there.
Like someone watching an injured animal decide whether it would accept help.
By the Seven, it was humiliating.
But not as humiliating as fainting alone in the middle of the forest.
"That cabin," he finally said, every word dragged out with effort. "Is it far?"
✻
Aemond loved to read.
He read about Valyria and the Doom; he also enjoyed stories about the First Men, who ruled the continent for millennia before being invaded by the peoples of the eastern continent, the Andals. Above all, Aemond enjoyed reading about the creatures that inhabited the realm—dragons, ice giants, White Walkers... and witches, whatever they did with those cauldrons. But more than anything, he loved stories about the creatures that inhabited the world. Dragons, giants, White Walkers... and witches.
In stories, witches were rarely benevolent.
They lived alone in cabins hidden deep within forests. They lured travelers into their homes with promises of shelter and warm food. Some stole children from their cradles. Others poisoned kings. There were even those who devoured souls, according to the legends.
Aemond had never put much faith in such stories.
Until that moment.
Because he was lost in a forest.
Following a strange girl.
And walking toward a cabin.
The situation did not strike him as particularly reassuring.
But, contrary to what the stories claimed, the cabin was... well, it was not an unpleasant, filthy, damp place full of worm carcasses and smelling of sludge, as he had feared. It was nothing like his chambers in the Red Keep, but neither was it uncomfortable.
The cabin had no separate rooms; it consisted of a single space built from wood and clay. The hearth occupied much of the room, right in the center. The warmth radiating from the flames was comforting in a way only a dragon would understand.
Bundles of dried flowers hung from the walls and the dark beams above their heads. Some he recognized from the gardens of the Red Keep; others he had never seen before. Small sprigs of herbs were tied together with string and left to dry in the heat of the fire.
The bed occupied a corner near the hearth. It was only slightly wider than he was and covered with thick wool blankets.
Aemond frowned.
He could not imagine living in such a small space.
"Sit."
Aemond opened his mouth to protest, but the pain in his leg protested first.
He ended up settling onto a wooden bench near the hearth. The heat of the flames wrapped around his legs immediately. It was pleasant.
The girl disappeared for a moment and then returned carrying a basin of water.
Without asking permission, she knelt before him.
Aemond studied her hands: there was dirt beneath her nails, small cuts on her fingers, old scars. The hands of someone who worked—not a lady, not a servant.
She dipped a cloth into the water.
Only then did she seem to remember that he existed.
"This is going to sting a little."
Aemond straightened his shoulders.
"I don't care."
It was a lie, especially when the cloth touched the wounded skin. The sting raced up his leg like fire. For one humiliating moment, his fingers tightened around the edge of the bench.
But Aemond did not move.
He did not complain.
He did not make a sound.
The girl continued cleaning away the blood as though she were trying to solve a particularly complicated problem.
That made him frown.
At the Red Keep, whenever he was injured, servants rushed from one side of the castle to the other. Maesters examined cuts that had barely begun to bleed.
There was no rushing here.
No servants.
No maester.
There was only that strange girl and a sleeping wolf near the fire.
Aemond looked away.
Remus slept with his head resting on his paws. The sight was so peaceful that it almost seemed unreal.
He wondered how long the girl had lived there.
And the question slipped out before he could stop it.
"Aren't you ever afraid?"
Her hands stilled.
For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the firewood.
"Of what?"
Aemond glanced around.
At the trees visible through the window.
At the forest.
At the solitude.
At all of it.
"This."
She followed his gaze.
Then she smiled.
Not an amused smile.
Nor a mocking one.
A puzzled smile.
Like someone incapable of understanding the question.
"It's just the woods."
Just the woods.
Aemond did not know how to respond.
"Hm."
It was all he managed to say, more grunt than word.
She was the one who broke the silence.
"Are they really that big?"
Aemond looked up.
"Who?"
"The dragons," she said. "Sometimes I can hear them from here. Which one is yours?"
The silence fell immediately.
His expression hardened.
"I don't have one."
A Targaryen without a dragon.
He could still hear them.
"Even Rhaenyra's bastards have dragons of their own, and you, the Queen's second son, can only watch."
"Even Rhaenyra's bastards have one, and you, the second son, can only watch."
"I'm sorry."
That was all she said.
Aemond did not answer.
✻
If Aemond had a dragon and were lost, he could burn every one of those cursed trees to ash and find his way back to the Red Keep.
He thought of Dreamfyre and her blue scales.
He imagined Meleys cutting through the skies at breathtaking speed.
But no matter how much Aemond imagined—
No matter how much he dreamed—
Aemond was still a Targaryen without a dragon.
An anomaly.
A disgrace.
"All done."
The girl's voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"You're as good as new. With any luck, the scar won't be bigger than your little finger."
Aemond did not reply.
He planted his feet on the ground and, with a sigh, rose from the bench. His leg still pulled unpleasantly, but the discomfort was no worse than the pinches his mother sometimes gave his arm.
"I don't care about scars."
She shrugged.
"How do I get back?" he asked.
The girl bit her lip thoughtfully.
"The oaks." She pointed toward the window. "They form a path. You only need to keep going in the same direction, and you'll be back in less than fifteen minutes."
Aemond nodded, his eyes fixed on the tree beyond the window.
The oaks.
He only had to follow them.
It was a simple task.
Aemond had always been good at memorizing instructions.
"Right."
He turned to the girl one last time.
There was something he wanted to ask.
Something simple.
Something any other person would probably have asked long ago.
But the words remained trapped in his throat.
A moment later, Aemond turned and walked out the door.
✻
The witch—as he had begun calling her in his mind—had been right.
Within fifteen minutes, he was back at the camp.
Men shouted orders at one another. The smell of soldiers' urine mixed with spilled ale soaking into the grass.
No sign of Aegon.
Good.
He supposed that perhaps the Seven were finally looking after him.
"Prince Aemond!"
Ser Criston Cole appeared at his right. A thin layer of sweat plastered his hair to his forehead.
"My men searched for you everywhere. Where have you been?"
Aemond turned toward him.
"I needed to walk."
His gaze swept across the camp.
Men ran back and forth.
Horses whinnied.
He grimaced.
"This place stinks."
Criston's eyes dropped to his leg.
"And what's that?"
Aemond followed his gaze.
The clean cloth stood out against the dried mud on his boots.
For a moment, he thought of the bundles of flowers hanging from the cabin ceiling.
He thought of the scent of lemon balm.
He thought of the witch.
"I managed."
✻
That night, after supper, Aemond finally retired to his chambers.
The silence was welcome.
No Aegon's laughter.
No squires making noise.
No smell of the camp.
He draped his cloak over a chair, sat on the edge of the bed, and began unwrapping the bandage.
The strips of cloth fell one by one onto the mattress.
When the last one was removed, he leaned forward to inspect the wound.
The skin was still reddened, but the cut had nearly closed completely.
Where he had expected to find a rough scar, there was only a thin, pale line.
So small it would be impossible to notice unless someone was looking for it.
Aemond brushed his thumb across the mark.
The girl had told the truth.
With any luck, the scar would not be bigger than a little finger.
A strange feeling passed through his chest.
Not gratitude.
Not exactly.
Only surprise.
She truly knew what she was doing.
For a moment, he remembered the scent of lemon balm.
The crackling of firewood.
The red wolf sleeping before the hearth.
Then he pushed the thoughts away.
Extinguished the candle.
And turned his attention to something far more important.
Dragons.