Limpick looked at her profile and suddenly remembered the way she had spun beneath the tree. Up on her toes, hands clasped behind her back, the hem of her robe lifting as she turned. She had finished the circle, wobbled once, caught her balance. Color had risen in her cheeks and a faint curve had appeared at the corner of her mouth. It was the least Targaryen thing he had ever seen.
Targaryens didn't spin in circles. They walked with their chins high and their eyes on the ceiling, as if the ground itself was too dirty for their shoes. When Daenerys spun, she kept her head down, watching her own feet, watching the ground beneath them. She knew what was there — mud, pebbles, ants, fallen leaves. She didn't think any of it was beneath her. Her shoes were already broken.
Limpick tucked the dragon bone back inside his robe and walked over to her. He glanced at the page she had reached. She was already on chapter five. When he had stepped away she had only been on chapter three. While he leaned against the wall for a little while, she had quietly finished two more chapters.
"That's enough for today," Limpick said.
Daenerys stopped and looked up at him. "I can keep going."
"Tomorrow. Rest a little."
She closed the book and set it on the altar. Then she turned and looked at Viserys. He was still kneeling in front of the brazier, hands stretched toward the flames, eyes closed, lips moving in silence. He was reciting the words he had already memorized. The tears on his face had dried, but a faint silver track still remained at the corner of his eye, like a dry riverbed. Daenerys watched him for a long time. Something moved in her purple eyes — not light, not tears, but quiet uncertainty. She wasn't sure if the man kneeling there was still the brother she knew.
The Viserys she had always known kept his chin raised, his back straight, his fingers trembling, his eyes on the ceiling. That Viserys had hit her, shouted at her, yanked her hair and called her a "useless sister," told her she was "his only bargaining chip." That Viserys would never kneel. That Viserys would never cry. That Viserys would never kneel before a fire with his eyes closed, silently reciting the name of a god he had never believed in.
She stepped behind him and placed her hand on his shoulder — very lightly, like a leaf settling on water. Viserys flinched, opened his eyes, and glanced back at her. His eyes were red — not from crying, but from staring into the fire too long. He looked at his sister's face for two seconds, then turned back to the flames and kept reciting.
Daenerys pulled her hand away, turned, and looked at Limpick. Her face showed nothing, but her eyes were bright, deep purple, almost black. "What time tomorrow?" she asked.
"Same as today."
She nodded, turned, and walked toward the door. After two steps she stopped and looked back at Viserys one last time. He was still kneeling, silver hair turned gold in the firelight, his back thin as a stick. She watched him for a moment, then left.
Limpick stood beside the altar and watched Viserys kneel in front of the brazier. He stayed down for a long time. Long enough for the sky outside to shift from afternoon to dusk. Long enough for the other temple servants to come and go. Long enough for Terys to step in, glance at him once, and leave again. He knelt until his knees turned purple, until cramps seized his calves, until he had to steady himself against the altar when he finally stood up.
When he rose, he turned to face Limpick. There were no tears on his face now, no expression — only a pair of pale purple eyes, almost transparent, but with something burning deep inside them. Not fire. Something darker, heavier, like magma beneath black stone — hard on the surface, but moving underneath.
"I'll be back tomorrow," Viserys said. His voice was still hoarse, but steadier than before.
Limpick nodded.
Viserys turned and walked out. He moved slowly, knees still bent, as if he might drop to the floor again at any moment. At the doorway he paused, one hand gripping the frame, and stood there for a few seconds before stepping outside.
Limpick remained in the hall. The brazier fire still burned, orange light rising and falling. He walked over, crouched, and slid his hand into the flames. Warm. Familiar. He closed his eyes and tried to feel something. No Ember. No Plume. No Yuan. But he felt something else — two flames, one large and one small, one unsteady and one steady, beneath the same roof, beneath the same holy fire, kneeling before the same god — or the same fire — reciting, believing. The larger flame burned unevenly, flaring and dimming, struggling against something. The smaller flame burned steadily — not bright, not large, but constant, refusing to go out.
Limpick opened his eyes and pulled his hand back. He stood, blew out the candles on the altar, closed The Book of R'hllor, and put it away. He walked out of the hall, crossed the courtyard, and headed toward the back rooms. The door to Viserys and Daenerys's room was closed, but a thin line of light showed beneath it — candlelight, weak and orange. He stood outside for a moment and heard a voice inside. Viserys's voice. Low. Quiet. Still reciting prayers. He had knelt all afternoon and he was still reciting in his room. He was using the prayers to fill every empty space in his mind so the old voices couldn't return.
Limpick stood there for a few seconds, then turned and walked away.
He returned to his own room, closed the door, and lay down on the bed. Moonlight slipped through the window and turned the long crack on the ceiling into a thin silver scar. He reached inside his robe and closed his hand around the dragon bone. Cool. Still. He held it for a long time, then let go and tucked it away. He closed his eyes and thought about Viserys kneeling in front of the brazier. He thought about Daenerys spinning beneath the tree. He thought about the soft breath she had used to send the leaf away. He kept thinking until the hollow place in his chest felt a little smaller again — not filled, just less sharp. The edges were rounding out, becoming smoother, less likely to cut. Maybe one day it would shrink until it was almost invisible. Maybe he would even forget he had once hidden a dragon, a dragon bone, and a name he could never go back to inside it.
Maybe not. Maybe the hollow would always be there, like the crack on the ceiling — visible only when the moonlight hit it just right.
He rolled over, facing the wall. The stone was cool and slightly rough under his fingertips. He pulled his hand back and smelled the faint chalk dust. Then he closed his eyes. From the room next door, the quiet sound of prayers continued — soft, muffled through the wall, like wind moving across a very distant place.
…