The smoke spread through the air, but it didn't turn into ordinary haze. It gathered into a shape. Round. Swollen. Eight short, thin tentacles hanging beneath it, like a baby's fingers. The dragon. A dragon made of smoke—gray-white, half-transparent—floating in the air. Its tentacles moved. Its head turned. Two holes where the eyes should be let you see straight through to the wall behind it. It opened its mouth and cried out silently. No sound came out, but Limpick heard it anyway—not with his ears, but somewhere deeper. In his bones. In his blood. In that sense he'd learned to use but still hadn't fully mastered. It was calling. Not a scream. Not a roar. It was looking for its mother. Even inside the egg it had remembered that sound—low, deep, like magma flowing underground. Yuan's voice. When it hatched, it never heard that sound again. It heard wind. Rain. The splash of water in the fish pond. Human footsteps. It had been searching for that voice ever since and never found it. It got hungry. Ate the fish in the pond. It got scared. Attacked the people who came too close. It wanted to live. It just didn't know how.
The smoke-dragon drifted for a few seconds, then dissolved. The smoke didn't fade into ordinary haze—it turned into a picture. A gray, half-transparent image painted in the air like ink. A city. Limpick recognized it. Pentos. He saw the walls. The gates. The square. The big tree. The roof of the Red Temple. The image moved like a bird flying overhead. It left the temple, flew east, over the walls, over the fields, over a river, over a patch of woods, and stopped at the base of a hill. The hill wasn't big, covered in trees. Between the trunks you could see a house—large, made of stone, with a courtyard, a wall, and an iron gate. The smoke-picture hovered there for a few seconds, then began to sink. Through the treetops. Through the branches. Through the fallen leaves. Through the dirt. Through the stone. Through the foundation. Down into the ground. Underground was a room. Small. Square. Stone walls on all four sides. No windows. Only one iron door. In the center of the room stood a stone table covered with black velvet cloth. On the cloth sat three objects. Round. Gray-white. Covered in scale-like patterns. They glowed faintly in the dark. Not one—three. One large, two small. The big one the size of a man's head, the small ones the size of fists. Lined up on the stone table in the darkness, lying perfectly still like three sleeping hearts.
The smoke faded. The hall returned to normal. The brazier still burned bright orange, as if nothing had happened. Daenerys's book slipped from her hands and hit the floor. She didn't pick it up. She stared at Limpick, her purple eyes wide, the firelight flickering in her pupils—bright, then dark. She had seen it. The smoke-dragon. The smoke-city. The smoke-house. The underground room. The three eggs on the stone table. She didn't know what kind of eggs they were, but she had seen them.
Viserys had seen them too. He stood up, hands hanging at his sides. His chin wasn't raised. His back wasn't straight. He looked at Limpick, his purple eyes pale and almost transparent, like thin glass with nothing behind them. But there was something in that emptiness—far down, like two gems sunk at the bottom of deep water, waiting to be pulled up.
"What was that?" Viserys asked. His voice was hoarse, like he hadn't had water in days.
Limpick stared at the cloth on the altar. The blood had burned black, edges curled and white, crumbling at a touch. He picked up the cloth, crumpled it, and tossed it into the brazier. It curled, blackened, burned, and finally turned to ash, mixing with the charcoal until you couldn't tell them apart. He turned to face Viserys and Daenerys. His face showed nothing, but something moved in his eyes—not light, not fire. Something colder. Harder. Like polished iron.
"Dragon eggs," Limpick said. "Three of them. In Pentos. In some important man's basement."
Viserys's hands started shaking. Not the hungry kind of shake. A different one. His body trembled, but his eyes stopped. They used to dart left and right, always searching, never finding. Now they stayed fixed on Limpick—purple, pale, transparent like glass. Nothing behind them, but something burning deep inside.
"Who?" Viserys asked. "Whose basement?"
Limpick shook his head. "I don't know. I only saw the house, not the person. It's at the base of a hill east of the city—past the river, past the woods. Courtyard. Wall. Iron gate."
Viserys turned and walked out. Fast. Long strides. His shoes struck the stone floor—tap, tap, tap—like hooves. Daenerys called after him, "Viserys!" He didn't stop. She took two steps after him, then halted and looked back at Limpick. Something moved in her purple eyes—not light, not tears. She knew exactly what Viserys was going to do. He was going to find those three eggs. He was going to take them. He would use any means necessary, no matter the cost. He had waited long enough—from Dragonstone to Pentos, Pentos to Myr, Myr to Tyrosh, Tyrosh to Volantis, and back to Pentos. He was done waiting.
Limpick looked at her. Her lips trembled—barely noticeable unless you watched closely. He slipped a hand inside his robe and touched the dragon bone. Cool. Still. He closed his fist around it, held it tight for a long moment, then let go.
"Let him go," Limpick said. "He won't find them."
Daenerys studied him, purple eyes blinking once. "How do you know?"
"Because he doesn't know where the house is. He only knows it's east of the city, past the river, past the woods. There are a lot of hills and houses out there. He could search every single one and still not find it by next year."
"You know where it is?"
Limpick was quiet for a moment. The smoke-picture replayed in his mind—from the Red Temple, flying east, over the walls, over the fields, over the river, over the woods, to the base of a hill. He remembered the shape of the river, the density of the woods, the height of the hill, the crooked tree standing beside the iron gate. He knew exactly where that house was. He could close his eyes and see the iron gate, the crooked tree, the little stream running past the base of the hill.
"I know," he said.
Daenerys looked at him for a long time. Then she walked over, reached out, and took his hand. Hers was small—couldn't wrap all the way around his fingers, just a few of them. Her fingers were cool, the same temperature as his skin. She held on and didn't speak.
"You're not going to ask if I'm going?" Limpick said.
Daenerys shook her head. "No need. You're going." She let go of his hand, stepped back, and looked at him. "But you're taking me with you."
Limpick studied her. Her purple eyes looked almost black in the firelight, like two deep pools you couldn't see the bottom of. Her chin wasn't raised. Her back wasn't straight. She stood there in a faded dark-red robe, silver hair tied back with a piece of rope, toes showing through the split in her shoe. She didn't look like a Targaryen. She looked like a girl who came to the Red Temple every day to read prayers until her voice went hoarse, until her lips cracked, until her knees turned purple. But after she finished she would stand up, walk outside to the big tree, rise onto her toes, and spin once. The corner of her mouth would lift. Color would rise in her cheeks. She didn't look like a Targaryen—but she had Targaryen blood. True dragon blood. Fire that had been burning in her veins for hundreds of years.
"Alright," Limpick said.
The corner of Daenerys's mouth moved—not quite a smile. Something fainter. Lighter. Like wind brushing across water, rippling, then smoothing out. She turned, walked to the brazier, knelt, stretched her hands toward the flames, closed her eyes, and began to pray. Her voice was soft, like water flowing over stone. Limpick stood beside the altar and watched her back. The firelight painted shifting shadows across her face. Her silver hair turned gold in the glow. The braid hung straight down her back, the tip swaying gently at her waist.
He turned to face the altar. The stone was cool, but he could feel the warmth underneath. He placed both hands on it and closed his eyes. He saw the three eggs again. In the darkness. On the stone table. On the black velvet cloth. Lying perfectly still. Gray-white. Scale-patterned surfaces. Glowing faintly—one bright, one dim—like heartbeats. Three heartbeats in the dark, pulsing together. Thud. Thud. Thud. Steady. Waiting for him.
He opened his eyes and lifted his hands from the stone. He walked out of the hall, crossed the courtyard, and returned to his room. He closed the door, pulled the dragon bone from inside his robe, and set it on the table. Gray-white. A few cracks running across the surface. Edges worn smooth. No longer glowing. No longer pulsing. He stared at it for a long time. Then he picked it up, slipped it back inside his robe, and pressed it against his chest. He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The long crack was still there. Moonlight came through the window and turned it into a thin, curved scar. He closed his eyes and thought about the three eggs. In the darkness. On the stone table. On the black velvet cloth. Waiting for him.