Viserys glanced at her. The look was quick, but Limpick caught it — not anger, not irritation, but something else. He had listened. He had actually listened to his sister.
That was rare.
In everything else he never listened to her. She told him not to meet that merchant — he went anyway and got cheated. She told him not to drink with that Pentoshi noble — he drank and got mocked. She told him not to start a fight in the market — he fought and got beaten. But when it came to the prayers, he listened. Because he wanted to learn. Not because he wanted to use the Lord of Light for anything. It was because, for the first time since he could remember, when he stood in front of the brazier with his hands in the flames, he didn't feel like the Beggar King. He didn't feel like the last of the Targaryens. He didn't feel like the exile everyone in Westeros had thrown out.
He felt like a man standing in front of fire, reciting a prayer.
Just like everyone else.
Nothing special.
And that feeling — of being nothing special — was completely new to him. His whole life, from the moment he could remember, his father had told him he was a true dragon. His brother had told him he was a king. His mother had told him he was the last hope of House Targaryen. He had never once felt ordinary. But standing there with the flames licking his fingers — warm, not burning — he felt ordinary for the first time. Just a man in front of a fire, saying the words. It felt good. So good it almost made him cry.
He didn't cry. He swallowed the tears instead.
On the fourth day, Viserys knelt.
Limpick hadn't told him to. He did it on his own.
After he finished reciting a passage, his knees simply bent and he dropped to the floor in front of the brazier. Both hands stretched toward the flames, head lowered until his forehead nearly touched the ground. Daenerys froze, staring at his back, something moving in her purple eyes — not light, not tears, but quiet shock. She had never seen Viserys kneel before. Not truly. He had knelt to many people — the Prince of Pentos, merchants in Myr, the Triarchs of Volantis, the High Priest of Volantis — but it had always been an act. His knees bent, but his back stayed straight. His head lowered, but his eyes looked upward. In his heart he had never truly bowed to anyone.
Today he bowed.
Not for show.
His knees touched the stone. His back curved. His head dropped. His hands reached for the fire. He was kneeling to the Lord of Light. He was kneeling to a flame. He was kneeling to something he had never believed in before — something he now wanted to believe in and was desperately trying to make himself believe.
Limpick stood beside the altar and watched Viserys kneel before the brazier. Daenerys stood nearby, The Book of R'hllor in her hands, lips slightly parted, forgetting to read. Viserys stayed down for a long time. Long enough for half the coals in the brazier to burn away. Long enough for Daenerys's legs to go numb and force her to shift her weight. Long enough for three candles beside Limpick to burn down to stubs.
Then he stood up and turned to face Limpick.
Tears covered his face.
He wasn't crying — at least not in the way most people cry. His eyes were dry, but water had run down from the corners, tracing paths across his cheekbones, past his mouth, down his chin, and onto his robe. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, looked at the moisture on his skin, and stared at it for a moment like he didn't understand where it had come from. Then he swallowed whatever had risen in his throat.
"I believe," Viserys said. His voice was hoarse, like he hadn't drunk water in days. But his eyes were bright — not with the wild, starving light from before, but with something heavier and steadier. Like fire. Like embers. Like coal that had burned all the way through — not blinding, but constant.
Daenerys looked at him, purple eyes blinking once. She closed The Book of R'hllor, hugged it to her chest, and walked over to him. She reached up and straightened his collar. It had flipped up on the left side, higher than the right. She smoothed it down, took a step back, and studied his face.
"You cried," she said.
"No, I didn't."
"There's water on your face."
"It's sweat."
Daenerys didn't argue. She turned and walked back to Limpick, setting the book on the altar. Her face showed nothing, but her hands were trembling — faintly, almost invisible. She closed them into fists and forced the shaking down. Limpick saw it but said nothing. He picked up the book, turned to the third chapter, and placed it in her hands.
"Read," he said.
Daenerys took the book, lowered her head, and began to read. Viserys stood in front of the brazier, both hands stretched toward the flames, eyes closed, reciting along with her. His voice was deeper and louder than hers, but every word was correct — not because he had mastered the language, but because he was listening with everything he had. He was listening to every syllable his sister spoke and repeating it after her. He was learning. He was kneeling. He was crying. He was believing.
Limpick stood beside the altar and watched them both — a fourteen-year-old girl reciting ancient prayers in a voice soft as water over stone, and a young man in his early twenties kneeling before the fire with tears still drying on his face, repeating after his sister. He suddenly thought of that night on Dragonstone when Melisandre had stood in front of him, hand extended, asking if he wanted to come closer to the fire. He had refused. Not because he didn't believe, but because he believed in something different. She believed in the Lord of Light. He believed in fire. Fire was real. Whether there was a god or not, fire was real. It burned when you touched it. It grew when you fed it. It didn't lie.
Now Viserys believed too. Not entirely in the Lord of Light — maybe a little, but not completely. What he believed in was the feeling of kneeling in front of fire and not having to think about anything. He had lived more than twenty years with a mind that never stopped. His father's death. His mother's death. His brother's death. The loss of the throne. The humiliation of exile. The anger of constant rejection. The fear of hunger. These things had fought inside his head from morning until night, from night until morning, never stopping. But when he knelt in front of the brazier, hands in the flames, eyes closed, reciting words he barely understood, his mind finally went quiet. The voices stopped. For the first time in his life he felt light. The feeling was so good he almost couldn't believe it. He was afraid it would disappear. So he believed with everything he had. He knelt with everything he had. He recited with everything he had. He was using faith to hold onto that moment of peace, using desperation to keep that silence.
Limpick looked at Viserys's back and realized they were a little alike. Both of them were searching for something. He was searching for his dragons. Viserys was searching for peace. Both of them were reaching for something they weren't sure they could hold, standing in front of the same fire with their hands stretched into the flames, waiting. Waiting for light. Waiting for a voice. Waiting for an answer.
The brazier fire burned strong, orange light casting three shadows on the wall — tall, short, and in between. The three shadows swayed like people dancing. Limpick stepped away from the altar, walked to the brazier, crouched down, and added two fresh pieces of charcoal. The flames rose higher, pushing warm air against his face. He stood and stepped back, leaning against the wall as he watched Viserys and Daenerys. Viserys was still kneeling. Daenerys was still reading. Her voice grew steadier with every line, smoother, like she was reciting a poem she had known since childhood — or maybe something older, something that had lived in her blood long before she was born, waiting only for her to open her mouth so the words could come out on their own. Viserys followed her, one word at a time, like a child learning to walk — stumbling a little, but never falling.
Limpick leaned against the wall and reached inside his robe, closing his hand around the dragon bone. Cool. Still. He squeezed it gently and closed his eyes, listening to Daenerys's voice, to Viserys repeating after her, to the crackle of the fire. For the first time in a long while, the hollow place in his chest felt a little smaller. Not filled — just less jagged. The edges had softened, like a stone that had been worn smooth by a river for a very long time. It no longer hurt to hold.
He opened his eyes and looked at Daenerys's profile. The firelight turned her pale skin soft pink and made her silver hair shine like gold. Her lips moved as she spoke the ancient words, purple eyes fixed intently on the page. She had no idea whether what she was doing mattered. Maybe it didn't. Maybe it was no different from reading a menu or a ledger. But she read with complete focus. Because she had promised to learn, she was learning. She finished one word and moved to the next. She finished one page and turned to the next. She didn't stop. She didn't complain. She simply did what she had said she would do.