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Limpick knelt there for a long time. Long enough for the mud on his knees to dry and crack. Long enough for the sun to move from east to south, stretching his shadow and then shortening it again. He stayed on his knees, gently touching one of the dragon's tentacles, while one thought circled endlessly in his mind — the eggs. Yuan had laid so many. The storm had scattered them across the world. This one had landed in a fish pond south of Pentos and hatched into this small dragon. Where had the others fallen? What had they hatched into? Were they also waking up in strange places, unable to find their mother, unable to find their way back, knowing only hunger, only survival? Were they also being discovered, attacked, and killed?
He stood up. His knees cracked loudly. He swayed, nearly fell, and caught himself against a nearby tree. He stood there looking down at the dragon lying in the mud — tentacles sprawled, body twisted, head tilted, one golden eye half-open. The eye had already gone cloudy, like two pieces of frosted glass that no longer held any light.
Limpick turned to face Davon.
"Clean this place up," he said, voice hoarse, as if it came from somewhere far away. "Don't let anyone know. Bury it. Bury it deep. Erase every trace. Leave nothing behind."
Davon looked at him and nodded. He didn't ask why. He had seen Limpick's eyes — something inside them had broken. No, not broken. Extinguished. Like the tiny flame that had once flickered in the dragon's throat — there one moment, gone the next. He didn't want to know the reason. All he knew was that the young priest who had come from Westeros now looked like a man who had just walked off a battlefield — no visible wounds, but something inside him had already begun to rot.
Limpick turned and walked away. He moved slowly, unsteady, one deep step, one shallow step, dragging his mud-caked boots across the ground. He didn't stop to scrape the mud off. He simply walked, one heavy foot in front of the other, heading back toward Pentos. The long-summer sun beat down on him, hot and merciless, exactly like the sun in Riverrun. His robe was stiff with dried mud and made a dry, rasping sound with every step, like he was wearing armor made of iron. His fingers still carried traces of the dragon's blood — gray-white, dried into a thin film that clung to his skin and refused to come off. He put his fingers in his mouth and sucked. Salty. Bitter. Metallic. Exactly like Ember's blood. Exactly like Plume's blood. Exactly like Yuan's blood.
When he reached the city gate he stopped and looked back one last time. The southern fields glowed golden in the sunlight, wheat stubble catching the light, trees along the river swaying in the breeze. In the direction of the fish pond, a patch of freshly turned earth stood out darker than the ground around it, like a crude patch on a worn coat. Davon and the two guards were still there, burying the dragon. Limpick turned and walked through the gate.
When he returned to the Red Temple, Daenerys was in the main hall reciting prayers. She sat in front of the brazier, holding The Book of R'hllor with both hands, lips moving, voice soft as water flowing over stone. Viserys knelt beside her, hands stretched toward the flames, eyes closed, repeating after her. When they heard the door open they looked up and saw Limpick standing in the doorway — robe covered in mud, face covered in mud, hair covered in mud, fingers still bearing the dried gray-white film. He stood there like a statue that had just been dug out of the earth.
Daenerys set the book down and walked over to him. She studied his face, his eyes, the gray-white film on his fingers. Her purple eyes blinked once. Then she reached out and took his hand. Her fingers were cool, the same temperature as his skin. Her hand was small and could only wrap around a few of his fingers, but she held them. She didn't speak. She didn't ask questions. She simply held on.
Viserys stood up as well. He walked over, looked at Limpick, then at Daenerys holding his hand. He said nothing. Instead he turned, walked back to the brazier, knelt, stretched his hands into the flames, closed his eyes, and began to pray — loudly, deeply, the sound echoing through the empty hall. He was praying for Limpick. He was praying for someone he barely knew. He was praying for a dragon he had never met.
Limpick stood in the doorway with Daenerys holding his hand while Viserys prayed and the brazier fire burned strong and orange, filling the hall with light. He gently pulled his hand free, walked to the brazier, crouched down, and slid his hand into the flames. It burned. This time it actually burned. The fire licked his fingers until they turned red, but he didn't pull away. He left his hand there for a while, then drew it back. A small blister had formed on one finger — clear, filled with fluid. He stared at it for a moment, then put the finger in his mouth, bit through the blister, sucked out the fluid, and tore off the dead skin, revealing the new pink flesh underneath — tender, like an infant's fingertip.
Daenerys stood behind him, watching him bite through the blister, tear off the skin, and expose the raw pink underneath. Something moved in her purple eyes — not light, not tears, but quiet understanding. She didn't know exactly what he had seen at the fish pond that morning, but she knew something had died there… and that he had come back changed. Something inside him had been left behind and buried with the dragon.
Limpick stood and turned to face her. His face was blank, but his eyes held something deep and heavy — like magma beneath black stone, hard on the surface but moving underneath. He opened his mouth, then closed it again without speaking. He turned and walked out of the hall, crossed the courtyard, and returned to his room. He closed the door, lay down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. The long crack still ran from one end to the other. Moonlight hadn't reached it yet, so the crack looked black — like a 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 rolled over, facing the wall. The stone was cool and slightly rough. He pulled his hand back and smelled the faint chalk dust. Then he closed his eyes.
He saw the dragon's eyes again — golden, huge, the pupil shifting from a vertical line to a circle, from confusion to something else. What had he seen in them? He wasn't sure. Maybe trust. Maybe bewilderment. Maybe it had smelled Yuan on him and thought he was family, thought he had come to save it. And then Davon's sword had driven into its neck from behind.
Limpick opened his eyes and stared at the whitewashed wall. He pressed his face into the pillow and made no sound. His shoulders trembled — faintly, almost imperceptibly.