Daenerys slid off the bed and walked to Viserys. She crouched in front of him and stared at the eggs. She didn't reach out to touch them. She just looked. In the candlelight her purple eyes turned almost black, like two deep pools you couldn't see the bottom of. Her lips moved—praying silently. No sound, just the soft opening and closing, like a fish breathing underwater. She stayed there a long time. Long enough for Viserys's tears to dry. Long enough for the faint glow on the shells to dim, brighten, then dim again.
She stood, turned, and looked at Limpick. He leaned against the doorframe, robe caked in mud, face scratched and bloody, hair wet with dew. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were bright—not the sharp kind from before, something deeper and steadier, like dying embers, like coals that had burned all the way through.
"You're hurt," Daenerys said.
"Doesn't hurt."
She stepped close and touched the scratches on his face. Her fingers were cool against the cuts. It stung, but he didn't pull away. She drew her hand back, looked at the blood on her fingertips—red, warm, fresh—then put them in her mouth and sucked the blood away. When she pulled them out she met his eyes.
"You said blood holds memory," she said. "What's in yours?"
Limpick looked at her but didn't answer. His blood carried dragonglass. Dragon bone. The fire that had soaked into him beneath Harrenhal and at the bottom of the Gods Eye. His blood carried three dragons—black, white, purple-black—torn away by the storm and scattered across the world. His blood carried the small dragon from the fish pond too—the one that hatched, ate someone's fish, got killed, and was buried in the mud while its tentacles rotted and its scales crumbled. He couldn't tell her any of that. So he gave her what she could hear.
"A lot of things," he said. "Hard to remember them all."
Daenerys studied him. Her purple eyes blinked once. She knew he was holding back—not lying exactly, just not telling the whole truth. She nodded and didn't press. She turned back to Viserys, crouched again, and finally reached out. Her fingers brushed the largest egg, light and slow, like touching a petal. The faint glow on the shell flickered once, as if answering. The corner of her mouth lifted—not quite a smile, something softer, lighter, like wind rippling water.
Limpick walked over, took the three eggs from Viserys's arms, and set them on the table. Viserys's hands stayed empty for a second, still shaped around nothing, before he lowered them to his sides. Limpick spread the cloth again and arranged the eggs side by side—the large one in the middle, the two smaller ones on either side. He stepped back and looked at them. In the candlelight the gray-white shells glowed faintly, their scaled patterns shifting like water. One bright, one dim. Three heartbeats pulsing together in the quiet room.
"When will they hatch?" Daenerys asked.
Limpick shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe soon. Maybe a long time. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next year. Dragon eggs don't answer to anyone. They wait until they're ready."
Viserys stood and moved to the table. He stared at the eggs. His face was dry now, but a faint silver track still marked the corner of one eye. His purple eyes were bright—pale, almost transparent, yet something burned deep inside them. Not the wild, starving light from before. Something heavier. Steadier. Like fire. Like embers. Like coals that had burned clean through.
"I'm keeping them with me," Viserys said. "Not giving them to anyone. Not selling them. Not trading them for anything. They belong to House Targaryen. They're mine. Mine."
Limpick said nothing. He watched Viserys's face, his eyes, the way his hand spread protectively over the eggs like a mother guarding her young. For a moment he saw the fish-pond dragon again—its golden eyes shifting from slits to circles, from confusion to trust—right before Davon's sword drove into its neck from behind. He didn't want to see that trust turn to confusion again. He reached inside his robe and closed his fingers around the dragon bone. Cool. Still. He held it tight for a long moment.
"They need warmth," Limpick said. "Near the brazier. Not too close. Not too far. Too close and they'll cook. Too far and they'll go cold. They need the same temperature they had inside the shells."
Viserys nodded. He lifted each egg carefully, cradled them against his chest, and carried them to the brazier. He knelt, arranged them in a half-circle facing the flames, and stayed there watching. The firelight danced across the shells. The scaled patterns shimmered like water. His face held an expression Limpick had never seen on him before—not pride, not greed, not madness. Just quiet. His mind had gone still. The voices in his head had stopped. He knelt before the fire with three dragon eggs and thought about nothing at all. The peace felt so good he was afraid to move. He placed his palm on the largest egg, feeling the steady warmth and the faint pulse beneath the shell. He closed his eyes.
Daenerys walked to Limpick and took his hand. Hers was small and could only wrap around a few of his fingers. Her skin was cool, the same temperature as his own. She held on and didn't speak. She simply held. Limpick looked down at her hand—slim fingers, short nails, faint ink stains across the knuckles from all the writing she did every day. He studied the marks for a long time. Then he turned her hand over, palm up. A thin scar ran from her life line to her head line. He didn't ask how she got it.
He closed her fingers into a fist and wrapped his own hand around it. He held on and didn't let go. Daenerys lifted her head and looked at him. Her purple eyes were deep and dark in the firelight, like two bottomless pools. Her lips parted, then closed. She lowered her head and watched her hand disappear inside his. The trembling stopped. She used to shake—when she was cold, when she was hungry, when she was afraid. Now she didn't. She didn't know if it was because his hand was warm or because of something else.
Limpick let go and stepped back. He turned, walked out of the room, crossed the courtyard, and returned to his own chamber. He closed the door, lay on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. The long crack was still there. Moonlight turned it into a thin, curved scar. He reached inside his robe and closed his fingers around the dragon bone. Cool. Still. He held it tight for a long time, then let go and tucked it away. He rolled onto his side, facing the wall. The whitewashed stone felt rough under his fingertips. He pulled his hand back and smelled the faint chalk dust. Then he closed his eyes.
From the next room came the soft sound of prayers—quiet, muffled through the wall, like wind moving across a distant place.
…