Limpick stood in the dark for a long time. Not because he wanted to. His legs simply refused to move. They had felt like cotton since the walk back from the fish pond—every step sinking, threatening to drop him. Back at the Red Temple he had sat by the brazier all night. When he finally stood, his knees cracked, but the weakness remained. Now, in his own room, he faced the closed wooden door, palm pressed flat against it. He tried to push. Nothing. His hand was shaking too hard. He pulled it back, curled it into a fist until the nails bit into his palm. The pain steadied him. He opened the door and stepped out.
The courtyard was empty. The moon hid behind clouds, the light thin and gray. Tree shadows lay across the ground like spilled water. He crossed the yard to the back rooms and stopped outside Viserys and Daenerys's door. A thin line of candlelight glowed underneath—weak, orange, like a half-closed eye. He knocked.
Viserys opened it. He wore the same old dark-blue coat, unbuttoned, shirt collar loose, pale collarbone and chest exposed. His silver hair hung loose, turned gold in the candlelight. He glanced at Limpick once, said nothing, and stepped aside. The room was small—two beds, a table, one chair. Daenerys sat on the bed, The Book of R'hllor open on her lap, but she wasn't reading. Her fingers pressed the page so hard the knuckles showed white. She lifted her head. In the low light her purple eyes looked almost black.
"You know where that house is," she said. Not a question.
Limpick nodded.
"When are you going?"
"Tonight."
Viserys's hand clenched at his side, then opened. He watched Limpick, pale purple eyes nearly transparent, like thin glass. His lips moved, but no words came. He was waiting.
"I'm going alone," Limpick said. "More people means more chance of being seen. That house has guards, an iron gate, a wall. I don't know how many men are inside, what weapons they have, or how they're connected to the governor. Fewer is better."
Viserys's chin came up. His back straightened. His fingers started shaking again—not fear, urgency. "Those are dragon eggs," he said, voice low but trembling. "Targaryen eggs. Our family's eggs. Stolen when King's Landing fell. They're mine—no, not mine. They're ours. Our house's."
Limpick met his eyes and stayed silent. He didn't care whose eggs they were. He cared that they were alive. In the smoke vision the three eggs had glowed in the dark, one bright, one dim, like heartbeats. They were alive—exactly like the clutch Yuan had laid deep under the sea. Something inside them was moving, growing, waiting. If he didn't go, they would stay there forever, in the dark, on that stone table, on that black velvet, waiting. Waiting to be found. Waiting to be sold. Waiting to be smashed. Waiting for whatever was inside to die in its shell. He wouldn't let that happen.
"I know," Limpick said. "I'll bring them back."
Viserys studied him, something shifting behind those pale eyes—calculation, doubt, hope. He wanted to trust this man. The red priest from Westeros. Melisandre's man. The one who had preached in the market, recited prayers in the temple, killed a dragon by the fish pond. Why was he helping Targaryens? What did he want? Viserys needed the answer, but he didn't ask. Because he was afraid the answer wouldn't be the one he wanted.
Daenerys slid off the bed, bare feet on the stone. Her feet were small, toes dusted with ash, nails trimmed short. She walked to Limpick and looked up at him. She was a full head shorter. When she tilted her head back, her chin lifted high—not from pride, like her brother, but because she couldn't reach otherwise.
"When will you be back?" she asked.
"Before dawn."
She nodded, lowered her head, and looked at her own toes. They curled once, then stilled. She stood there a moment, then turned, walked back to the bed, sat, and picked up the book. She opened it across her lap but didn't read. She simply held it there, fingers resting on the page, head bowed over the words.
Limpick turned and left. Viserys followed him to the door, one hand gripping the frame, and watched his back cross the courtyard and vanish into the dark. He stood there a long time before closing the door. Inside, Daenerys sat on the bed, head down, lips moving silently over the page. She was praying—no sound, just the soft opening and closing of her mouth, like a fish breathing underwater. Viserys walked to her, dropped to a crouch, and took her hand. Hers was small and cool, fingers thin as chopsticks. He squeezed tight enough to turn them white. She didn't pull away. Didn't cry out. Didn't look up. Her lips kept moving.
Limpick slipped out the back door of the Red Temple. The street was empty. Moonlight filtered through clouds, turning the stone road into a pale ribbon. He followed it east—past the square, past the well, past the big tree. The tree's shadow sprawled like a giant hand. He circled it and kept walking. The city wall rose ahead, black and high, battlements like teeth. The main gate was closed, but he didn't need it. He followed the wall south until he reached the water gate—a small river flowing out beneath an arched tunnel in the wall. The water was shallow, barely over his ankles, cold enough to bite. He pulled off his shoes, rolled up his robe, and stepped in. The chill made his toes curl, but he didn't stop. He bent low and slipped through the arch. On the other side lay the fields outside the city. A sliver of moon broke through the clouds, washing the stubble gold.
He put his shoes back on and followed the river east. He walked steadily, not fast. He remembered the river from the smoke vision—curving like a bow, back to the north, string to the south. He followed it for half an hour until it narrowed to a shallow stream, silver under the moon like a snake sliding across the ground. He crossed it and kept going. Woods appeared ahead—thin, trees spaced wide, ground thick with weeds and brush. He moved through them slowly, branches scraping his robe, dew soaking his shoes. He watched the gaps between trunks, the shape of the hills, the way moonlight fell. He remembered the crooked tree—the one standing beside the iron gate, trunk leaning, crown tilted like a head watching something.
He found it.
The hill wasn't large, covered in trees. Through the gaps he saw a house—big, stone, with a courtyard, a wall, and an iron gate. The gate was black and tall, stone lions crouched on the pillars, worn smooth by wind and rain until eyes and mouths were gone. Beside the gate stood the crooked tree, trunk bent, crown leaning, looking like a drowsy figure in the moonlight. A single weak orange light glowed from one window inside the courtyard—like a half-closed eye. The wall was high, broken glass set along the top, glinting like teeth.