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After morning prayers, Limpick waited for Daenerys in the main hall. The brazier fire burned strong, orange light making the tapestries on the walls glow. Golden flames danced across the red fabric like they were alive. He had opened The Book of R'hllor on the altar and turned to the first chapter. He stood there with one hand resting on the page, waiting.
The door opened. Daenerys walked in wearing a clean robe — not her own, but one the temple had given her. Dark red cotton, simple collar and cuffs, freshly washed and neatly folded. Her silver hair was tied back with a new piece of rope, the braid hanging straight down her back, the tip just reaching her waist. She stopped in front of him, purple eyes meeting his.
"Let's begin," she said.
Limpick had her stand beside the altar facing the brazier. He took his place on her right and opened the book to the first line. She looked down at the curving letters — High Valyrian, her mother tongue. She had spoken it since she was a child: at home, on the road in exile, in the halls of the nobles who sometimes took them in. Viserys had always spoken High Valyrian with her. It was their family's language. The language of true dragons. The language of the Conqueror. She recognized the letters, but she had never spoken the prayers of the Lord of Light before.
"Read it once," Limpick said.
Daenerys looked at the line, her lips moved, and she read it aloud. "In the beginning, the world was darkness. There was no light, no heat, no life." Her High Valyrian was perfect — every syllable crisp and clear, far more beautiful than when she spoke the Common Tongue. Softer. Smoother. Like water flowing over stone. Limpick listened and suddenly remembered the first time Melisandre had read to him. Back then he hadn't understood a single word. He could only memorize the sounds and repeat them in his head until his tongue blistered. Daenerys didn't need to do that. These sounds, these letters, this language lived inside her. Her ancestors had spoken it on the high plains of Valyria while they rode dragons. She carried their blood in her veins.
"Good," Limpick said. "Next passage."
Daenerys read the next one, then the one after that, finishing the entire first chapter. She read slowly, but every word was correct. When she finished she looked up at him, purple eyes turned deep violet in the firelight. "Who wrote these prayers?" she asked.
"Ancient priests. After the Doom of Valyria."
"What about before the Doom?"
"There were no prayers like these. They didn't write things down back then. They rode dragons."
Daenerys stared into the brazier for a long moment. "Dragons," she said softly, like she was speaking a word she hadn't said out loud in a long time and was afraid of saying it wrong. "Viserys says our family used to have dragons. Three of them. Balerion, Vhagar, Meraxes. He says Aegon rode Balerion and conquered Westeros. One burned Harrenhal. One burned the Gardeners. One —" She stopped. "He told me a lot of stories. But I don't remember most of them. I was too young."
Limpick looked at her and suddenly realized she wasn't really talking about dragons. She was talking about her brother. Viserys had told her many stories, but she didn't remember them clearly. Not because she was too young. Because she didn't want to remember. When Viserys spoke about dragons, there was a light in his eyes — not a normal light, but the kind of light that appears in the eyes of someone who has been hungry for too long and finally sees food, or thirsty for too long and finally sees water, or lost in darkness for too long and finally sees fire. That kind of light was dangerous. It burned too bright. It could burn people alive.
"Do you want to ride a dragon?" Limpick asked.
Daenerys looked at him. For a brief second her purple eyes brightened. Then she pushed that light back down and lowered her head, staring at her hands. "I don't know," she said. "I've never seen a dragon. They're all dead."
Limpick didn't speak. He couldn't tell her the truth — that dragons weren't dead. That he had raised three of them. That a storm had torn them away and scattered them across the world, but he knew they were still alive. He could feel it — not through the dragon bone, not through the flames, but from somewhere deeper, in his bones, in his blood, in a sense he had learned to use but hadn't yet mastered. They were alive. They were out there somewhere, waiting for him. But he couldn't say any of that. She was fourteen years old, with broken shoes and an old dress, living in an abandoned fish warehouse, eating charity porridge. She didn't need dragons. She needed food. She needed warmth. She needed a place that wouldn't throw her out. Limpick turned the page to the second chapter. "Keep reading."
Daenerys nodded and lowered her head.
Viserys came on the third day.
Limpick was teaching Daenerys in the hall when the door opened and Viserys walked in. He wore the same dark-blue coat, silver hair uncovered and shining brightly against the dark red of the temple. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching them, then stepped forward and walked straight to the brazier, stopping beside his sister.
"I want to learn too," he said.
Limpick looked at him but said nothing. Viserys's chin was high and his back was straight, but his eyes were different now — not the wild, starving light from before, but something heavier, darker, like something inside him had broken and, instead of cutting him, had pulled all the broken pieces together so he could stand steadier than before. Limpick didn't know what Viserys had figured out during the two days and two nights he had spent alone in that small room. But he knew that when Viserys stood in front of him and said "I want to learn," it wasn't about making a deal. It wasn't about using the Lord of Light's church to take back the throne. He genuinely wanted to learn.
"Alright," Limpick said.
Viserys learned more slowly than Daenerys. His High Valyrian wasn't as good — not that he couldn't speak it, but he spoke it too hard, too aggressively, every word sounding like he was arguing with someone. When he said "R'hllor," he put the stress on the last syllable and made it sound like a curse. Limpick corrected him three times. Viserys fixed it, but the next time he read it the same way again. Daenerys listened quietly from the side, the corner of her mouth twitching — not quite a smile, but something knowing, like she was watching someone she had known for many years do exactly what she had always expected him to do.
"You're reading too fast," Daenerys said gently. "Slow down. 'R'hll—lor,' not 'R'hllor.'"