On the fourth day Viserys knelt before the brazier, a believer arrived.
Limpick was teaching Daenerys chapter six. She stood beside the altar holding The Book of R'hllor, lips moving as she recited in a soft voice — like the last autumn leaf drifting from a tree. When the High Valyrian syllables left her mouth they carried a strange warmth, not cold, but like a stone freshly taken from the brazier — not burning, yet clearly holding heat inside. Viserys knelt in front of the brazier, hands stretched toward the flames, eyes closed, repeating after her. His voice was deeper and louder than hers, but always half a beat behind — listening to her first, then speaking, like a shadow following its owner, one step at a time.
The door opened. A man walked in wearing a filthy coarse coat, mud caked on his boots, hair wild, as if he had traveled a long way. He stood in the doorway, breathing hard, eyes sweeping the dim hall until they landed on Limpick. Then he hurried forward. Limpick recognized him — he was the father of the lame boy who came every day for porridge. Limpick had forgotten his name, but he had seen the face many times at the front of the alms line, always saying "R'hllor bless you" when he took his bowl.
"Father," the man said, voice urgent, like words he had been holding back for the entire journey had finally found their way out. "The fish in my pond — they're gone."
Limpick looked at him and waited.
"Not one or two," the man said, gesturing with both hands as if trying to draw the entire pond in the air. "All of them. I had over thirty carp. The big ones were this size —" He held his hands apart from chest to waist. "They were there the day before yesterday. Yesterday half were missing. This morning I woke up and they were all gone. The water's cloudy. There are marks on the bank — big marks, like something crawled out of the pond. Huge marks."
Limpick watched him, something stirring inside his chest. He didn't let it show on his face. "Maybe otters," he said. "Maybe someone stole them."
"Not otters," the man said, voice tightening with urgency. "Otters wouldn't churn up the bottom like that. The mud at the bottom is all turned over. The water's been cloudy for three days. These aren't footprints. It's —" He paused, searching for the right word. "It's like something was rolling around down there. Rolling and thrashing and stirring everything up. I've lived forty years and I've never seen an otter do anything like this."
Limpick said nothing. He glanced at Daenerys. She had stopped reciting. Her purple eyes moved from him to the man and back again, her face unreadable. Viserys had opened his eyes too. He looked at the man for a moment, then turned back to the fire and kept reciting. He didn't care about fish ponds, otters, or thieves. He only cared about the fire.
"Where is the pond?" Limpick asked.
"South of the city, past the wall, half an hour's walk. By the river."
"I'll come look tomorrow."
The man opened his mouth, then closed it again. He nodded, turned, and walked away. At the door he paused and looked back, lips moving as if he wanted to say something else, but no sound came. Then he was gone.
Daenerys looked at Limpick. "Do you believe him?"
Limpick thought for a moment. "I don't know."
"Then why are you going?"
Limpick didn't answer. He didn't know how to explain it. There was a thought in his mind — light, faint, like a single thread of spider silk that would snap if he touched it. He didn't dare reach for it. He left it floating there, untouched. "We'll see tomorrow," he said. "Keep reading."
Daenerys gave him one more look, then lowered her head and continued.
The next morning, Limpick, Davon, and two guards left the city. Davon walked in front, hand resting on his sword hilt, eyes scanning both sides of the road like he expected trouble. Limpick followed behind in an old robe — not the formal one he wore at the altar, but the one he had worn on Dragonstone, collar worn thin, cuffs stained with charcoal. He didn't want to ruin a new robe by wading through mud. The two guards brought up the rear, one carrying a shovel, the other a bucket. Davon had insisted on tools. Limpick hadn't asked why.
The southern wall was lower and older than the northern one, stones covered in moss. Beyond the gate lay open fields. The wheat had already been harvested, leaving only stubble and weeds. The road was mud — rain had fallen the night before — and each step sank deep, the muck clinging to their boots and growing heavier with every stride.
After half an hour they reached the river. It wasn't wide, but the water was murky, yellowish-brown, moving sluggishly like it was sick. The fish pond sat beside it, separated from the river by a low earthen dam. It was small — about half the size of a courtyard — and the water was the same dirty yellow-brown color, covered with a layer of green algae and foam. On the bank were marks — large, wide marks, as if something had crawled out of the water and dragged itself across the mud in a broad, long trail that stretched all the way toward the river. The edges of the trail were ragged, like something had struggled, rolled, and thrashed. In the middle were several deep grooves, like claw marks.
Limpick crouched and studied the trail. His fingers trembled — faintly, barely noticeable. He pressed his hand against his knee to stop it. He recognized these marks. They weren't from otters. They weren't from thieves. They weren't from crocodiles. He had seen marks like these on the beach at Dragonstone — when Yuan had crawled out of the sea onto the rocks, its tentacles leaving trails in the sand. Much smaller, but the shape was the same — wide, flat, with the faint imprint of suckers at the edges. Octopus tracks.
But octopuses lived in the sea. Not in a riverbank fish pond.
"Drain it," Limpick said.
Davon glanced at him. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
Davon told the two guards to dig a channel through the earthen dam with the shovel. Water poured out, thick and yellowish-brown, carrying mud and the smell of rotting fish. It took half an hour for the water level to drop by half, then another half hour for it to drop again. Finally the muddy bottom was exposed. The entire pond floor had been churned into chaos — black mud turned over and over like someone had rolled across it all night. There were holes — several of them, different sizes, some as big as a fist, others as big as a head, dark and bottomless. Buried in the mud were the remains of fish — bones, scales, and chunks of half-eaten flesh, already pale and rotten from sitting in the water.