"I want to make a deal with the Lord of Light's church," Viserys said, voice low enough that only Limpick could hear. "I have something you want. Dragon blood. King's blood. You've been burning idols and killing people across Westeros just to prove your god is real. If he's real, he should help me take back the throne. The day I sit the Iron Throne, all of Westeros will convert to the Lord of Light. Every sept gets torn down and turned into a red temple. Every heart tree gets burned for kindling. The Drowned God's—"
"Viserys," Daenerys called softly from behind him.
He stopped mid-sentence and glanced back. Her face looked strange — not angry, just worried, like she was watching someone walk toward the edge of a cliff and couldn't reach him in time.
Viserys turned back to Limpick. "Take me to Terys."
Limpick looked at him, then at Daenerys. She stood under the awning, purple eyes full of something he couldn't quite name. Not fear. Not sadness. She knew Viserys was doing something stupid, but she couldn't stop him. She never could.
"Alright," Limpick said.
He knelt, smothered the brazier coals, gathered his things, and led them toward the Red Temple. Viserys walked beside him, long strides, fast pace, like he was late for something important. Daenerys trailed a few steps behind, slower, like she was still deciding whether to follow at all.
They crossed the square, passed the big tree, and reached the temple doors. Terys wasn't there — he'd stepped out and wouldn't be back until evening. Limpick brought them inside and told them to wait in the main hall. Viserys stood in front of the brazier, stretched his hands over the flames the way he'd seen the priests do, closed his eyes, and moved his lips. No sound came out. He wasn't praying — just pretending. Daenerys stayed by the doorway and didn't come in. She leaned against the frame, watching her brother play priest. Something in her purple eyes flickered and almost broke, then steadied again like a flame caught in a sudden gust of wind.
Limpick stood beside the altar and watched them both. Viserys was acting. Daenerys was just watching. Viserys did a decent job of it, but his fingers trembled and his breathing was uneven. Limpick couldn't hear his heartbeat, but he could feel it — frantic, like a bird trapped in a cage. Daenerys didn't pretend. She simply stood there, silent, taking everything in. Her eyes were bright, deep purple in the dim red light of the temple, like two ripe grapes. She looked at Viserys. She looked at Limpick. She looked at the fire, the tapestries on the walls, the beams overhead. Just looking.
Limpick rested his hand on the cold stone altar. The surface felt cool, but he could sense the warmth beneath — the temple built on living earth, earth on stone, stone on deeper stone. He didn't know what lay deeper than that anymore. Maybe fire. Maybe water. Maybe dragonglass veins. Maybe nothing. He couldn't feel any of it now. His senses stopped at an empty, cold edge.
But when he looked at Daenerys, something else stirred. Not the dragon bone — that had gone quiet. Something older, deeper, in his bones and blood, in a sense he'd learned to use but hadn't mastered yet. Silver hair. Purple eyes. Dragon blood. The Conqueror's blood. She stood in front of him in broken shoes and a faded dress, fourteen years old, not yet grown into herself, no one willing to marry her. Yet there was something inside her — not the burning heat of Melisandre's fire, but something else. Cold. Hard. Like late-autumn river water. Like winter frost. Like the stones at the base of Riverrun's wall at dawn. But deep inside that cold, something burned. The same way it burned in Ember. In Plume. In Yuan.
Limpick pulled his hand back from the altar and let it fall to his side. His fingers shook — faintly, barely noticeable. He closed them into a fist and forced the tremor down.
Terys returned.
He stepped into the hall, saw Viserys and Daenerys, and paused for half a second before continuing forward. He set his things on the altar, turned, and faced Viserys. In the firelight his light-brown eyes turned golden, like two burning pieces of amber.
"Viserys Targaryen," Terys said. "I've heard of you."
Viserys lifted his chin higher. "You're Terys?"
"I am."
"I want to make a deal."
"What kind of deal?"
"I help you spread the faith in Westeros. You help me take back the throne." Viserys's voice was loud in the empty hall. His fingers had stopped shaking. His breathing had steadied. Chin high, back straight. Orange light from below carved sharp shadows under his cheekbones and into his eye sockets, but his eyes stayed bright — pale purple, almost translucent.
Terys studied him for a long time. Then he smiled — not mocking, but the kind of smile an adult gives a child who thinks they've done something clever. "Do you know what you're saying?"
"I do."
"The Lord of Light's church is not a sellsword company. We don't fight wars. We spread faith."
"Faith and war aren't separate," Viserys said. "You've been burning idols and killing people across Westeros. That wasn't war?"
Terys smiled again, shorter this time. "That was Stannis Baratheon's doing, not ours. We are priests, not soldiers."
"Is there a difference?"
Terys didn't answer. He looked at Viserys, then turned to the altar, stirred the coals, and added two fresh pieces. "You may stay here tonight," he said. "Leave in the morning."
Viserys opened his mouth, then closed it. His chin dropped. His back wasn't so straight anymore. His fingers started trembling again. He stared at Terys's back, something wet moving in his purple eyes — not light, but water. It circled once and didn't fall. He swallowed it down.
Daenerys walked over from the doorway, took his sleeve, and tugged gently. "Let's go."
Viserys didn't move. He stared at Terys's back for a few more seconds, then turned and walked out. Daenerys followed. At the door she paused and looked back at Limpick. Just one second. Then she was gone.
Limpick stood beside the altar and watched their shadows disappear into the evening light. Viserys's silver hair turned gray in the dusk. Daenerys's stayed brighter for a moment — like a small flame about to go out — then vanished.
He turned to the brazier, slid his hand into the flames. The orange fire licked his fingers — warm, not hot. He closed his eyes and tried to feel something. Nothing came. No Ember. No Plume. No Yuan. Just fire moving quietly between his fingers, warm and still, like water.
He stood there a long time with his hand in the flames. Then he pulled it out. His fingers were red from the heat but didn't hurt.
He walked out of the hall, crossed the courtyard, went to his room, closed the door, and lay down on the bed. A long crack ran across the ceiling. Moonlight slipped through the window and turned the crack into a thin silver scar. He reached inside his robe and touched the dragon bone. Cool. Still. He closed his fist around it and squeezed.
He closed his eyes and thought of Daenerys's eyes — deep purple, like ripe grapes. In the firelight they had turned darker, like two burning amethysts. When she looked at him there had been something strange in them — not curiosity, not fear. She was trying to understand something and hadn't quite figured it out yet. She didn't know who he was, where he came from, or why he was preaching in a Pentos market square. But when she looked at him, there was light in her eyes. Not reflected light. Something coming from inside. Weak. Faint. But bright. Like a dying ember. Like a star about to rise.
He rolled over, facing the wall. The stone was whitewashed and rough under his fingertips. He pulled his hand back and smelled the faint chalk dust on his skin. Then he closed his eyes.
"Daenerys," he whispered.
The name hung in the empty room for a second, then faded. No one heard it. Outside, the wind blew and a dog barked once.
…