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Game of Thrones White Dragon Rising
Game of Thrones The Sun Dragon Descends
On his twentieth day in Pentos, Terys put Limpick in charge of the morning alms. It was an old Red Temple custom — every morning they set up a big cauldron outside the doors and cooked thick porridge with salt, sometimes tossing in a few salted fish bones for the people who couldn't afford a meal. Pentos had plenty of them. The line stretched from the harbor all the way to the square — men, women, children, some in rags, some wrapped in threadbare blankets, some with nothing at all, just huddled against the walls like piles of discarded cloth.
Limpick stood behind the cauldron with a big wooden ladle, scooping porridge into bowls one by one. The porridge was thick; the grains sank to the bottom and needed hard stirring to mix. His arm ached, but he didn't stop. The first person in line was a woman holding a baby wrapped in a dirty rag. The child's eyes were closed — asleep or something else, Limpick couldn't tell. The woman took the bowl with shaking hands. Some porridge spilled and burned her fingers, but she didn't cry out. She just bowed her head and drank fast, choking once before continuing. The baby never woke.
The second was an old man with a white beard and cloudy eyes. He couldn't see. He held out both hands and felt the air until Limpick placed the bowl in them and guided his fingers to the rim so he wouldn't spill it. The old man nodded and murmured something too quiet to catch.
The third was a lame boy about Limpick's age. One leg ended at the knee; he walked with a wooden crutch. Fresh bruises covered his face — purple and new, like someone had beaten him. When he took the bowl he met Limpick's eyes. The look was hard, like he'd come to collect a debt instead of beg for food. Limpick gave him an extra scoop without a word.
On the twenty-seventh person, Limpick's hand froze.
Viserys stood in the line.
He wore the same dark-blue coat, collar turned up to hide half his face. A gray cloth covered his silver hair, but the purple eyes gave him away — too pale, too bright, like two stars that had fallen out of the sky and didn't belong in a Pentos morning. He kept his head down, shoulders hunched, back not as straight as usual. He was trying to look like an ordinary beggar. He wasn't very good at it. His chin kept wanting to lift. His back kept wanting to straighten. His eyes kept drifting upward like the ground itself offended him.
Limpick watched him. Viserys didn't look at Limpick. He stared at the porridge pot, at the person in front of him walking away with a full bowl, at the last drop being licked clean from someone else's bowl. His throat moved as he swallowed.
Daenerys stood behind him. She wasn't wearing the gray dress anymore. She had on an oversized light-brown robe that looked scavenged — too big, shoulders hanging past her arms, sleeves rolled three times. Her silver hair was tied back with a piece of rope; strands slipped loose and moved in the morning breeze. She didn't lower her head or hunch her shoulders or hide her eyes. She looked straight at Limpick. Her purple eyes were bright — brighter than they'd been that day in the market. She had recognized him. She had recognized him from the very first moment.
Limpick dipped the ladle into the pot, stirred, and lifted a full scoop. He didn't pour it into a bowl. He just stood there holding the ladle, looking at Viserys and Daenerys in silence.
Viserys finally raised his head and met his eyes. Those pale purple eyes were almost transparent in the sunlight, like thin glass with nothing behind them. But something moved inside them — not light, not tears, something harder and more fractured, like porcelain that had cracked but hadn't quite shattered yet. The cracks spread outward from the pupils in a thousand tiny lines. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His chin came out of the collar and lifted anyway. Even standing in a beggar's line, wearing an old coat and an empty stomach, his chin still rose.
Limpick set the ladle back in the pot, picked up two bowls from the stack, and filled them — both fuller than the others. The porridge was so thick the ladle stood upright inside. He added two pieces of black bread from the basket and carried the bowls around the cauldron to Viserys.
Viserys stared at the bowls but didn't reach for them. His lips trembled — not from hunger, but from something else. Pride and starvation were fighting inside him. Pride told him not to take the food. Hunger told him to take it. Hunger won. He accepted the bowl. His fingers shook when they touched the rim; a little porridge spilled and burned his hand, but he didn't make a sound. He held the bowl and didn't drink. He just stood there staring down into the thick gray-white porridge, shoulders beginning to tremble — faintly, almost invisible.
Daenerys stepped forward from behind him and took the second bowl from Limpick's hands. She didn't shake. She didn't lower her head. Her fingers brushed his for a second — cool, the same temperature as his own skin. She looked at him once, purple eyes darkening in the sunlight, then bowed her head and took a sip.
"Thank you," she said.
Limpick stood beside the cauldron and watched them eat. Viserys drank fast — three big gulps and the bowl was empty. He didn't touch the bread. He clutched it in one hand, knuckles white. When he finished he looked up at Limpick again. The look had changed. Not hard anymore. Not broken. Just dazed — the look of a man who had been hungry for so long that being full felt unreal, like it might disappear if he blinked. He pinched the palm of his hand hard enough to hurt. He was still awake. He looked down at the black bread, squeezed it once, then slipped it inside his coat without eating it.
Daenerys ate slowly, small careful sips like she was tasting it. When she finished she set the bowl on the ground and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She didn't eat her bread either. She broke it in half, gave one piece to Viserys, and tucked the other inside her robe. Viserys took it, hesitated, then ate it in two bites. Daenerys watched him with no expression on her face.
"Where are you staying?" Limpick asked.
Viserys didn't answer. Daenerys pointed toward the harbor. "Down there. An old warehouse. Used to store fish. It's empty now." Her voice was flat, like she was talking about something that had nothing to do with her. An abandoned fish warehouse. Empty. Fish scales and bones on the floor. Rats. Wind blowing through the cracks. How long had they been living there? How long had Viserys been living there?
Limpick didn't ask. He didn't need to. He had lived in worse places in Riverrun — a broken shack against the city wall where the rain came in harder outside than inside, where rats ran across his face at night. He knew what that kind of place did to people. It didn't make them hard. It didn't make them cold. It made them thin — thin as paper, ready to tear in the first strong wind.