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Limpick looked at her and said nothing. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to tell her what he saw in the flames—because he saw nothing at all anymore. Not since the night of the storm. Not since the dragon bone stopped pulsing. Not since he first slid his hand into the brazier in Pentos and saw only ordinary orange fire. No blue passage. No distant images. No silver shadow. Just fire. Melisandre had said he needed time, that the flames didn't know him yet and he didn't know them. But she was wrong. It wasn't the flames that didn't know him. It was that he no longer knew himself. His dragon bone was silent. The edge of his senses was empty. His dragons had been torn away by the storm and scattered across the world. Standing before the brazier with his hand in the fire made him feel like any ordinary man. Not burning. Not cold. Seeing nothing. But Inara didn't need to know any of that. She had ridden all the way from Braavos looking for blue light, for fire that leaned toward him, for a chosen man. He couldn't disappoint her.
"The fire is quiet," Limpick said. "When it doesn't speak, I can't speak for it."
Inara studied him, her deep brown eyes narrowing. She held his gaze for a few seconds, then nodded as if confirming something. "Melisandre said you were humble. She was right. Many people can see things in the flames, but few can stay silent when they see nothing. Most would lie. They would invent whatever they thought others wanted to hear. You don't lie." She drew her hand back and stepped away. "The people of Braavos want to meet you. We have a larger brazier there, more priests, older scriptures. You won't learn anything more in Pentos. You should come to Braavos."
Limpick stood beside the altar, one hand resting on the cool stone. He could feel the warmth beneath it—the temple built on living earth, earth on soil, soil on rock, rock on deeper rock. He didn't know what lay beneath Braavos. Maybe water. Braavos was a city of more than a hundred islands joined together, built on the sea itself; beneath its streets there was no soil or stone, only seawater and silt. He didn't know if the braziers there burned hot or if the flames would lean toward him or if he would ever see blue light again. But he knew he had to go. Not because Inara had come. Not because Melisandre had written the letter. Not because he was chosen. He had to go because of the five gray-white dragons he had seen swimming through the morning mist. They were heading west. Braavos lay to the west. He didn't know where they were going, but he wanted to be closer to them. Not to catch them. Not to raise them. Not to make them remember him. Just to be near. In the same city. On the same coastline. Under the same sky. Maybe one day he would see them from the shore—gray shapes moving through the mist, passing by, then gone. Maybe not. But at least he would be there.
"I'll go," Limpick said.
Viserys rose from in front of the brazier. He had been kneeling there all morning, praying until his knees turned purple, his voice hoarse, his lips dry. When he heard Limpick say "I'll go," he stood, turned, and looked at Inara. His purple eyes looked almost transparent in the firelight, like thin glass. His chin was lifted high, his back straight, his fingers steady. He had become the Beggar King again—even though his pockets held not a single copper, even though he lived in the Red Temple eating charity porridge, even though he knelt before the fire until his throat gave out. His chin stayed high. His back stayed straight.
"I'm going too," Viserys said.
Inara looked at him for a long time. She knew who he was. Of course the people of Braavos knew Viserys Targaryen. He had come to Braavos many times—begging for armies and gold in noble halls, peddling his sister's marriage in merchants' parlors, lingering outside the Red Temple's doors, wanting to enter but not daring. His reputation in Braavos was poor. They called him the Beggar King to his face and laughed. He had pretended not to hear. He had laughed louder than they did and said he didn't care. He cared. He had always cared. While kneeling before the brazier reciting prayers, he had squeezed every drop of that caring out of his bones and fed it to the fire. Some of it had burned away. Not all. What remained still lived—in the set of his jaw, the straightness of his back, the stillness of his fingers. It no longer trembled, but it was still there, hard and uncomfortable. He thought going to Braavos might burn away more of it. Maybe it would. Maybe it wouldn't. But he wanted to go.
"Daenerys is coming too," Viserys said.
Inara glanced toward the corner where Daenerys stood. She wore the same dark red robe, her silver hair tied back with a rope, the braid hanging down her back. In her hands she held a cloth bundle—not an ordinary one, but the same cloth Limpick had used when he stole the dragon eggs from the governor's cellar. It was folded neatly, bulging, something moving inside. The three hatchlings were curled together in the bundle, occasionally poking a head through a gap, golden eyes flashing once in the dim hall before vanishing again. Inara didn't see them. Limpick stood in front of Daenerys, his broad back and matching dark red robe forming a wall that hid the bundle completely. Daenerys kept her head down and pulled the opening tighter. One of the hatchlings shifted inside; she pressed her fingers against the cloth, right over the largest one's head, and pushed it back in.
"She's coming," Viserys said again.
Inara looked at Viserys, then at Limpick. Her deep brown eyes narrowed as she weighed something. Then she nodded. "Fine. The Red Temple has room. Three more won't matter."
Daenerys stood behind Limpick, head lowered, watching the bundle in her hands. It moved—rising and falling like something breathing. Her fingers gripped it tight, knuckles white. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. Viserys had spoken for her. Limpick had shielded her. She only had to stand there, head down, holding the bundle closed so nothing inside would be discovered. She was doing it well.
Limpick turned and looked at her. He couldn't see her eyes, only the silver hair, the braid, and the crown of her head. He reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder, pressing lightly. She lifted her head and met his gaze. Her purple eyes looked almost black in the dim hall. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, then closed. She lowered her head again and kept holding the bundle. Limpick drew his hand back, turned, and faced Inara.
"When do we leave?" he asked.
"Tomorrow at first light."
"Good."
That night Limpick didn't sleep. He sat at the table, took the dragon bone from inside his robe, and laid it on the wood. Gray-white. A few cracks running across the surface. Edges worn smooth. No glow. No pulse. He stared at it for a long time, then picked it up, slipped it back against his chest, and stood. He left his room, crossed the courtyard, and stopped outside Viserys and Daenerys's door. A thin line of candlelight showed beneath it—weak, orange. He knocked. Daenerys opened it. She wore the dark red robe, unbuttoned, the shirt beneath open at the collar, revealing pale collarbone and the top of her chest. Her silver hair hung loose, turned gold in the candlelight. She looked at him once, then stepped aside to let him in.
The room was small—two beds, a table, one chair. Viserys sat on the bed holding The Book of R'hllor open on his lap, but he wasn't reading. His fingers pressed hard against the page, knuckles white. The three hatchlings lay curled together in the ashes of the small hearth fire. It wasn't much of a fire, but it was warm enough. They huddled like three gray-white, fuzzy, breathing stones. The largest rested its head on the middle one's back; the middle one's tail wrapped around the smallest one's leg; the smallest had curled into a tight ball like a rain-soaked kitten. They were asleep, breathing in soft unison, scales catching the firelight in tiny flashes.
"We leave tomorrow," Limpick said. "It'll take several days on the road. We can't let anyone see them."
Daenerys walked to the hearth, crouched, and lifted the hatchlings one by one from the ashes, placing them carefully into the cloth bundle. They woke and squeaked a few times—thin, mouse-like sounds. She pressed her fingers gently against their heads until they quieted, then tucked them back inside and tied the bundle shut with a firm knot. She slung it over her shoulder. It shifted once, something moving inside, then stilled.
"I'll carry them," she said. "No one will see."
Limpick looked at her and nodded. He turned and left.