After the Gods Eye business, everything slowed down again. Ember and Plume had stuffed themselves so full in the lake that for the next few days they barely moved. Ember spent most of the time curled up in Harrenhal's biggest hall, a black coil of scales with those dark-red veins glowing steadily for three full days before they finally dimmed. Plume wasn't much better—perched on top of Ember's head like a white fluff ball, eyes closed, opening them once in a while to check if Limpick was still around before shutting them again.
Limpick didn't sit idle. Every day he walked to the lake for water, scrounged for anything edible around the castle, skinned and roasted whatever Ember dragged back, then split it three ways—one share for himself, one for Ember, one for Plume. When neither of them ate much, he just finished his own portion and wrapped the leftovers in rags, hanging them in the coolest corner he could find. He wasn't sure why he bothered hoarding food. Something from his Riverrun years stuck with him: when you had it, you saved it, because the day you didn't have any was the day you started starving.
On the third day Ember finally woke. Its molten-copper eyes flared open in the dark, then it stood and gave itself a full-body shake. Scales rattled like a blacksmith's hammer on an anvil, the sound echoing through the empty hall. Limpick stood in the doorway and watched until it finished, then walked over and rubbed its head.
"Finished digesting?"
Ember rested its massive head on his shoulder. It felt heavier than ever—the dragon's skull was now bigger than Limpick's entire upper body, like balancing a boulder. He didn't flinch. The scales weren't cold metal anymore; they were warm, almost like living skin, a little hotter than human body temperature but not burning.
Plume lifted off Ember's head and landed on Limpick's shoulder. It had grown too—wings now the length of his forearm, claws digging in hard enough to hurt. Limpick didn't mind. Plume tilted its head and studied him with that golden eye, then gently pecked at his hair.
"All right, all right," Limpick said, pushing its head away. "You're both awake, so go do something useful. Find food."
Ember blew a puff of smoke, turned, and headed out. Plume flew up and settled onto its back. One black dragon, one white bird, they disappeared through Harrenhal's gates toward the Gods Eye. Limpick watched them go, then turned back to mend his rags.
He had no idea something else was about to happen that same afternoon.
When the sun started sliding west, Limpick was sitting on the highest remaining section of the tallest tower. The roof had collapsed long ago, but the broken battlements still gave a perfect view of the entire castle and the lake beyond. He liked it up here—wind in his face, nothing to do but stare while Ember and Plume hunted fish along the shore.
Today he couldn't see them. They had probably crossed to the far side where the woods were thick and rabbits were plentiful. He was about to climb down when he heard it.
Singing. Distant, coming up the southern road.
Limpick stood and looked south. A group of people was walking toward Harrenhal—seven or eight of them, all in dark-red robes, carrying a banner. The flag was red with some kind of embroidered design. From this distance he couldn't make it out clearly, but when the sunlight hit it the gold thread flashed.
Lord of Light.
He had heard about them back in Riverrun. Priests from Volantis who traveled everywhere preaching that R'hllor was the only true god, that darkness and cold were evil, and that fire could purify anything. King Robert didn't like them much but never banned them. The Faith of the Seven hated them with a passion—bar fights in taverns were common. In the Riverlands they were rare, but every so often you'd see one in the market square lighting a bonfire, burning something, then handing out bread to the poor.
Handing out bread.
Limpick's eyes narrowed. He looked down at himself—rags, wrecked shoes, hollow cheeks, dirt packed under his nails. Perfect beggar. Same look he'd had in Riverrun, same look he still had here. Nothing had changed.
He climbed down from the tower, went back to his room, tucked the rusty dagger into his belt and covered it with his shirt. Then he headed outside, squatted in the shadows just inside the main gate, and waited.
The group took about half an hour to reach the gates. The man in front was tall and rail-thin, around forty, with burn scars running from his left forehead all the way down to his jaw, destroying half his face. He wore a dark-red robe cinched at the waist with a rope, walked barefoot, and carried the red banner. Six or seven others followed—men and women, old and young—in similar robes, though theirs were patched and faded. They had stopped singing. The only sound was their feet crunching on loose stone.
The leader stopped at the gate and stared up at the five black towers for a long time. Then he lowered his gaze and spotted Limpick squatting in the shadow.
Limpick stayed hunched, arms around his knees, eyes peering over them. He didn't have to act. He really did look like a half-starved stray dog from the city wall.
The scarred man walked over and crouched in front of him. Up close the burned face was even uglier—the left eyelid was gone, the eyeball bulging and bloodshot. But he was smiling, yellow teeth showing.
"Child," he said, "do you live here?"
Limpick nodded without speaking.
"Harrenhal," the man said, glancing back at the towers. "This is no place for people. Are you alone?"
Limpick nodded again.
The man studied him for a moment, then reached into his robe and pulled out something—a piece of white bread. Soft, not the usual black brick, with a few grains of salt on top. He placed it in Limpick's hands.
"R'hllor gives it to you," the man said. "May the Lord of Light illuminate your path."
Limpick took the bread, closed his fist around it, but didn't eat. He kept his head down, voice muffled. "Thank you."
The man stood, turned, and said something to the others. They filed through the gates and settled into a side room off the main courtyard, lighting a fire, spreading bedrolls, unpacking their bundles.
Limpick stayed crouched by the entrance and watched them work. He slipped the white bread inside his shirt the same way he used to in Riverrun—save it for later. He listened carefully while they moved back and forth.
They spoke the Common Tongue with thick Volantene accents, rolling their r's hard. Limpick caught most of it. They were missionaries of the Lord of Light, coming from King's Landing, traveling north along the Kingsroad. They planned to stop at Harrenhal for a few days, preach in the nearby villages, hand out bread and salted fish, and—
Limpick's ears pricked up.
—and take in children.