Limpick crouched at the edge of the trees and studied the house. He counted the windows—six across the front, four on the second floor, two on the first. The lit one was on the ground floor, second from the left. The curtains were drawn, but he could see shadows moving behind them. One. Two. Three. Footsteps echoed from the courtyard—leather boots on stone, steady and heavy. Guards. More than one.
He stayed in the dark a long time. Long enough for the moon to slip fully out from the clouds and slide back in again. He timed the guards. They walked the front wall, left to right, right to left. One minute per circuit. Two men, trading off. When one walked, the other stood at the gate, head turning slowly, scanning like a bird hunting for worms.
Limpick slipped from the trees. He stayed low, belly to the ground, moving through the tall grass like a snake. The weeds reached past his knees. He crawled until he reached the base of the wall, pressed his back against the cold, rough stone, and caught his breath. Then he worked his way left until he was under the crooked tree. Thick roots twisted out of the dirt like tangled snakes. He grabbed them and climbed.
The trunk slanted like a ramp. He walked up it until the fork, then stood and reached the top of the wall. Broken glass glittered inches from his fingers. He wrapped his robe around his hand, gripped the gaps between shards, and hauled himself up. He swung a leg over and straddled the wall.
The courtyard was empty. The guards were still at the front gate. Limpick dropped down into a pile of old barrels and crates beside a broken wagon. Wood creaked under his boots. He froze. No one came. He stood and moved along the wall toward the back of the house.
A small wooden door stood there, paint peeling, iron handle rusted. Locked. He kept going and found an unlocked window—narrow, but wide enough to slip through sideways. He pushed it open, climbed in, and landed in a dark hallway. At the far end, faint light spilled from the direction of the lit window. He followed it to a corner and stopped.
Two men were talking inside the room ahead—Pentoshi, fast and sharp, like they were arguing or making a deal. He caught only a few words: governor, price, tomorrow, ship. He dropped to one knee and peered through the crack. A small room. Table. Two chairs. Oil lamp burning bright. One fat man with his back to the door. One thin man facing it—long face, sharp nose, eyes like black beans. The thin one gestured big with his hands, describing something large. The fat one nodded now and then.
Limpick pulled back and kept moving. At the end of the hall was a narrow stone staircase leading down. He took off his shoes, went barefoot, and descended without a sound. The steps were worn smooth in the middle. At the bottom stood an iron door with a single ring. He twisted it. The door swung open.
A damp stone passage sloped downward, walls slick with moss. He followed it until it widened into a small square room. No windows. Only the door behind him. In the center stood a stone table draped in black velvet. On the velvet lay three eggs.
One the size of a man's head. Two the size of fists. Gray-white. Scaled patterns across the shells. They glowed faintly in the dark—weak, pulsing, like dying candle flames. One bright, one dim. Heartbeats. Three heartbeats in the dark, steady and slow, exactly like the ones he had heard on the beach at Dragonstone.
Limpick stood in the doorway, staring. His hands shook—not from fear. He heard it again. A faint sound from inside the shells. Not a heartbeat. Something turning. Something moving. Tiny cracks had already started across the largest egg, hairline thin.
He stepped closer and held his palm above the biggest egg without touching it. Warm. The heat reached his skin from two inches away—warm like fresh-baked stone, like cooling scales, like soft feathers, like Yuan's tentacles.
He pulled his hand back and took a clean cloth from inside his robe. He spread it on the table, lifted each egg carefully, and wrapped them. They were heavier than they looked. Heat seeped through the cloth into his palms. He tied the corners into a bundle and slung it over his shoulder. The eggs bumped together once—soft, like a drumbeat.
He retraced his steps. Up the stairs. Through the hallway. Out the window. Around the side of the house. Up the wall using the tree. Down into the grass. He lay still while the guards passed on the far side of the courtyard. When their footsteps faded, he ran.
He sprinted through the trees, across the river, across the fields, back to the city wall. He slipped through the water gate, shoes in hand, robe hitched up. Inside the city the streets were silent. Moonlight on stone. He passed the square, the well, the big tree, and reached the back door of the Red Temple.
He knocked. The door opened. Viserys stood there. He saw Limpick. He saw the bundle in his arms. He saw the scratches on Limpick's face, the mud and dew on his robe. His lips began to tremble. His fingers shook. His whole body shook. He reached out, then stopped halfway. He didn't dare take it. Afraid it wasn't real. Afraid the eggs were broken. Afraid he was dreaming and would wake to nothing.
Limpick placed the bundle in his hands. Viserys took it. The weight made his arms drop, but he clutched it tight against his chest like a drowning man clutching driftwood. He lowered his head, untied the knot, and pulled back one corner of the cloth.
Three eggs. Gray-white. Faintly glowing. Warm. One bright, one dim. His eyes filled. He wasn't crying—not the way most men cry. His eyes stayed dry, but water ran down his face from the corners, tracing his cheekbones, his mouth, his chin, and dripping onto the shells. The faint light on the largest egg flickered once, as if answering.
Viserys cradled the bundle and walked to the bed. He sat, laid the eggs on his lap, and bowed his head. His fingers moved gently across the shells—top to bottom, bottom to top—slow and careful, like touching a newborn.