Daeron's eyes sharpened the instant Melisandre spoke.
"Desert oasis?"
"Exactly." The red priestess stepped into the solar without waiting for permission, red robes whispering across the stone. "The place feels exactly like Ginger Island. I'm certain it's the one you described."
Ever since the Battle of Tarth, Melisandre had been convinced Daeron was the prince of prophecy. She had spent every waking hour trying to earn his favor.
Daeron had no reason to turn away a seer who actually delivered.
He'd casually mentioned searching for the Calico Desert and more dragon eggs. She had found the first lead.
Daeron rubbed his chin, thinking out loud. "Desert oasis… guarded by an iron gate…"
A black gate on sand. That sounded exactly like House Yronwood in Dorne—the Bloodroyal, Wardens of the Boneway, first vassals to the Martells. Their sigil was a black gate on a field of sand.
Melisandre gave a graceful little smile, the kind that hid how hard she was working to please him. "I still remember the scent in the flames. If you wish, I can guide you there myself."
"Not yet," Daeron said. "Keep searching the fire. Get me more details—exact location if you can. I'll make time when it's right."
"I cannot promise everything will match your desires," she replied, testing the waters.
Daeron shrugged. "Then try making something new. Witch potions, protective amulets—whatever you can. I'll have use for them."
Opening Ginger Island meant building totem poles for fast travel. The desert and Ginger Island poles were non-negotiable; the mountains and beach could wait. But those two spots were too far apart—even on dragonback, the round trip would eat days.
The totem poles required witch potions and dark talismans from the special items list to unlock the wizard's shop. Once he had those, he could also build the Junimo hut to speed up crop harvesting.
Given that Melisandre had already helped him brew Forest Magic with a Noble Heart soul, she could probably manage the rest.
"Very well," she said, a touch disappointed but obedient.
Daeron dismissed her with a nod and stayed behind to think alone.
The desert oasis had come at the perfect time. It gave him ideas.
The oasis shop sold starfruit seeds, after all.
He closed his eyes and felt the Life Seed pulsing in his chest.
One thing had been bothering him for weeks: he might have taken the wrong fork in the Life Seed path.
The Kingsguard who had formed their Life Seeds all described theirs the same way—a simple, milky-white seed, slightly translucent, quietly hungry for more life force to help it grow.
Daeron's was different. His looked like a fully ripened Ancient Fruit.
At first he'd assumed it was because he had eaten an Ancient Fruit right before forming the seed. But after questioning Barristan, Ser Gerold, and Ser Jon, that theory fell apart.
Ser Gerold had used a gold-star sweet melon.
Barristan had used an Ancient Fruit.
Ser Jon had used an Ancient Fruit.
Jaime had used a gold-star pumpkin.
None of them ended up with a fruit-shaped seed. Theirs stayed as simple seeds—dormant, patient, waiting to sprout roots.
Daeron's was already fruiting. It had skipped the entire growth cycle and jumped straight to harvest. The problem? No roots, no stem, no leaves. It was drawing life force like crazy but had nothing to anchor it. The seed looked… overfed and unstable.
Daeron exhaled slowly. "Life force is the soil. Special crops give it flavor and spirit. The seed forms from that combination. After that, the path should mirror real growth—sprout, flower, fruit."
He had rushed straight to fruit.
The Star Fruit he'd eaten at the Autumn Festival had probably poured too much life force into the seed and forced it to ripen early.
If he was right, the correct sequence was: gather life force, form the seed, let it sprout, let it flower, then let it fruit.
His seed had taken a shortcut and paid for it.
Daeron grinned. "Easy fix. I'll just break it down and start over."
For anyone else that would be suicide—shattering a Life Seed caused massive internal damage and made forming a new one almost impossible. For him? Healing potions stopped the bleeding, Dragon-Tongue Farm kept the special crops flowing, and a little pain never killed anyone.
Once he reached the desert oasis and grew starfruit—or better yet, gem berries—he could try again. Gem berries were the most expensive crop in the entire system. If the final fruit stage reflected the crop used to form the seed, the difference in power could be night and day.
But that could wait. Right now he had bigger fish to fry.
He pushed the Life Seed thoughts aside and focused on the coming Great Council at Harrenhal. He was going to strip Rhaegar of his rights as heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone the proper way. Legitimacy mattered.
Rhaegar had never formally renounced his claim. A regent prince sitting in the king's chair was still just a regent. Daeron needed the lords of the realm to watch him take the legal step. Only then could he force Aerys to step aside without looking like a usurper.
"Handle Harrenhal first," he told himself. "Everything else comes after."
The bait he had scattered that morning should be drawing the big fish in by now.
The next day, just after dawn, a messenger slipped into the king's bedchamber.
Minutes later Aerys called an emergency Small Council meeting, furious about the rumors of Daeron planning a Great Council at Harrenhal.
The council chamber felt colder than usual.
Aerys sat at the head of the table, face twisted with rage. The scratches Drogon had left on his nose and cheeks still hadn't scabbed over. He looked half-mad and ready to explode.
Before he could start shouting, Varys rose.
"Your Grace," the Spider said softly, "I received a raven this morning. Prince Rhaegar has remarried in Lys. He has publicly wed Lady Lyanna Stark and given their bastard son the Targaryen name."
Aerys froze.
Then he erupted.
"What?!"
Varys shrank back. "From the reports, Prince Rhaegar claims House Targaryen is the blood of dragonlords and is restoring the old Valyrian custom of multiple wives. The archons of Lys and even House Martell sent representatives to the wedding."
The chamber went dead silent.
Rhaella's daughter-in-law Elia and granddaughter Rhaenys were still living in the Red Keep under royal protection—the very bridge between the Iron Throne and Dorne. And Rhaegar had just spat on all of it.
Varys kept his voice low. "The Lysene magisters have already gifted him several estates. They want him to stay."
Aerys's eyes bulged. "That ungrateful whelp!"
He slammed his fist on the table so hard the wine cups jumped.
Daeron sat perfectly still, watching the explosion. He hadn't expected Rhaegar to move this fast—or this stupidly.
Maester Aemon sighed. "A foolish boy."
Ser Corlton cleared his throat. "Your Grace is right. We cannot accept this. It will drag the kingdom into another war."
"I agree," Mace Tyrell said at once, hand shooting up.
Lord Lucerys Velaryon looked grim. "Polygamy is trouble enough. Doing it openly in Lys while still holding the title of heir…"
Daeron finally spoke, voice calm and final.
"Rhaegar is too frivolous to ever rule the Seven Kingdoms."
The words landed like a hammer.
He stood. "In one hundred days we will hold the Great Council at Harrenhal. I intend to strip Rhaegar of his rights as heir to the Iron Throne. I expect every one of you to attend."
"Prince—" Lord Corlton began, face pale.
Daeron cut him off. "There is no precedent for a regent stripping an heir. Just as there was no precedent for a king naming a regent while the heir still lived. Times change."
He looked each man in the eye.
"Rhaegar is unfit. That is all."
With that he turned and strode out, Barristan and Ser Jon falling in behind him like shadows.
The moment the door closed, the chamber erupted in uneasy muttering.
Lord Corlton wiped sweat from his brow. "There's never been a regent who removed the heir before…"
"Nor a king who named a regent while the heir still lived," Lucerys shot back.
Tywin Lannister rose without a word, expression unreadable. "I have pressing duties. Good day."
He left before anyone could drag him into the mess.
Mace looked lost. "What do we do now?"
Lord Staunton muttered, "First we wait to see what the king does."
The Small Council had just been handed a live grenade, and no one wanted to be the one holding it when it went off.