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Limpick looked at her and felt something move in the empty place inside his chest — the place that had been hollow for a long time. Not the dragon bone. The dragon bone had stopped beating. It was something else, lighter, shallower, like a breeze moving through an empty room, stirring a thin layer of dust that settled back down and faintly outlined the shape that had once been there. He didn't know why he wanted her to join the faith. He told himself it was because of her blood — Targaryen blood, dragon blood, true dragon blood. Melisandre had said king's blood carried power, and Targaryen blood carried the most, because they had once ridden dragons. If he ever wanted to find the dragons the storm had taken from him, he would need dragon blood.
But he knew that wasn't the whole reason.
He looked at Daenerys standing in the doorway in that oversized brown robe, hair tied back with a piece of rope, toes showing through the split in her shoe, half a piece of black bread clutched in her hand, saying I can learn. He remembered himself in the library on Dragonstone, staring at pages full of letters he couldn't read while Melisandre sat across from him and read aloud. He had said the same words — I can learn. Back then he had nothing, not even the alphabet. But he had fire. He had the dragon bone. He had two dragons waiting for him in the woods. Now she had nothing — not even a brother she could rely on — but she had blood. True dragon blood. Fire that had been burning in her veins for hundreds of years.
"I'll teach you," Limpick said.
Daenerys tucked the half-piece of bread back inside her robe and brushed the crumbs from her hands. She looked at him, purple eyes dark as ripe grapes in the sunlight. "Good," she said.
Viserys turned from the window. He glanced at Limpick, purple eyes narrowing, mouth twitching — not a smile, something sour, like he had tasted something bitter. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at Daenerys standing in the doorway, at Limpick standing in front of her, at whatever was passing between them that he didn't understand. It wasn't jealousy — not entirely. It was loss of control. His sister. His only bargaining chip. The only card he had left to play. And now she was standing in front of a red priest saying good and I can learn. She hadn't asked him. She hadn't looked at him. She hadn't waited for his permission. She had simply said yes.
Viserys closed his mouth and turned back to the window. His hand rested on the sill, fingers spreading, then clenching, then spreading again. His shoulders trembled — not from hunger, but from something else he couldn't name.
Limpick said nothing. He turned and walked out of the room, crossed the courtyard, and returned to the main hall. The brazier fire was dying down, only a few coals still glowing. He crouched, stirred the embers, and added fresh wood. The flames rose again, orange and warm, pushing heat against his face and chest. He slid his hand into the fire. It didn't burn — just warm, familiar. He closed his eyes and tried to feel something. No Ember. No Plume. No Yuan. But in the flames he saw a faint silver shape. Small. Dim. Like the flame of a candle about to go out, flickering in the wind but refusing to die. He stared at it for a long time until the fire jumped and the shape dissolved.
He opened his eyes and pulled his hand back. His fingers were red from the heat but didn't hurt. He stood and walked to the doorway, glancing into the courtyard. Daenerys was standing beneath the big tree, head tilted back, looking up at the leaves. Sunlight filtered through the branches and dappled her face, her shoulders, her silver hair. The hair shone like polished metal, catching the color of the sky. She reached out, caught a falling leaf in her palm, looked at it, then blew gently. The leaf drifted away on the breeze. She watched it go, and the corner of her mouth lifted — not quite a smile, something softer, lighter, like wind, like water, like the breath she had just used to send the leaf away.
Limpick stood in the doorway and watched her for a long time. She didn't notice him. She clasped her hands behind her back, rose onto her toes, and spun once beneath the tree. The hem of her robe lifted, showing pale calves marked with small red bites from insects. She stopped, wobbled, caught her balance. Color rose in her cheeks — not embarrassment, but simple happiness. It had been a long time since she had stood somewhere she didn't have to pay for, somewhere she wouldn't be chased away, somewhere she didn't have to read someone else's face for danger. Sunlight fell across her. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to it, the faint curve still at the corner of her mouth.
Limpick turned and walked back into the hall. He sat in front of the brazier and stared into the flames, thinking about the silver shape he had seen. Small. Faint. Like a dying candle. But it hadn't gone out. She was in the fire. Not Viserys — he was sure of that now. Viserys was a different kind of light, brighter, thinner, like glass that would shatter at the first touch. Daenerys's light was heavy and deep, like late-autumn river water, like winter frost — cool on the surface, burning underneath.
He reached inside his robe and touched the dragon bone. Cool. Still. He closed his fist around it for a long moment, then let go and tucked it away. He stood, walked to the altar, and picked up The Book of R'hllor. He opened it to the first chapter and stood there, head bowed over the words he had spent two months learning to read. His lips moved without sound — reciting silently, for himself, for the fire, for the silver shape he had seen.
"In the beginning…"
When he finished the passage he stopped and raised his head. The brazier fire burned steadily, orange light rising and falling. His shadow stretched long and thin across the wall behind him, like a single candle flame. He closed the book, set it back in its place, and walked out of the hall.
Daenerys was no longer beneath the tree. Only fallen leaves and dappled sunlight remained. He crossed the courtyard, knocked on the door of their room. Viserys opened it, looked at him without speaking, and stepped aside to let him in. Daenerys sat on the edge of the bed, the half-piece of black bread still in her hands, untouched, her fingers tracing patterns across the crust. When she saw Limpick she looked up, purple eyes brightening.
"Starting tomorrow," Limpick said, "after morning prayers, I'll teach you the chants."
Daenerys nodded. "Good."
Viserys stood by the window with his back to them, staring out at the courtyard. His shoulders were still tight, his chin still lifted, his back still straight. But the fingers gripping the windowsill were trembling — not from cold, not from fear, but from something he was holding back, something he couldn't name.
Limpick glanced at him, said nothing, and left the room. He closed the door behind him, crossed the courtyard, and returned to his own room. He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The long crack still ran from one end to the other. Moonlight slipped through the window and turned the crack into a thin silver scar. He reached inside his robe and closed his hand around the dragon bone. Cool. Still. He squeezed it and closed his eyes.
He thought about Daenerys spinning beneath the tree. He thought about her silver hair shining like metal in the sunlight. He thought about the faint curve at the corner of her mouth. He thought about the soft breath she had used to send the leaf away. He kept thinking until the hollow place in his chest didn't feel quite so empty anymore.