Viserys turned and walked back to the brazier. He knelt, stretched both hands into the flames, and held them there. The wounds on his hand stung when the fire touched them, but he didn't pull away. He left them in the heat until the edges curled white, like skin seared by a branding iron. Then he drew his hands back and hid them inside his sleeves. He closed his eyes and began to pray.
His voice was loud and heavy, echoing through the empty hall like a bell. He recited the first chapter of The Book of R'hllor from the beginning, fast and urgent, every word scraped raw from his throat. He said it once. Twice. Three times. He didn't look at the hatchlings. He didn't look at Daenerys. He didn't look at Limpick. He only looked at the fire.
Fire was real. Whether a god existed or not, fire was real. It burned when you touched it. It grew when you fed it. It never lied. Dragons lied. Dragons could dislike you. Dragons could choose someone else. Dragons could bite. Fire didn't bite. Fire only burned—clean, honest, and the same for everyone.
Limpick stood beside the altar and watched Viserys kneel before the flames. His thin shoulders shook—not from crying, but from the effort of pushing something out of his body. Pain he had never been allowed to feel. Humiliation he had never been allowed to name. Loneliness he had never been allowed to admit. He forced it all into the fire, syllable by syllable, until the veins stood out on his neck and his temples pulsed. But he made no sound. He only prayed, faster and harder, as if arguing with someone.
He was arguing with the dragons. With his own blood. With Aegon the Conqueror from centuries ago. You rode dragons. You conquered the Seven Kingdoms. Your blood runs in me. Why won't they choose me?
The flames jumped once, as if answering—or refusing to answer. Viserys's shoulders stilled. He finished the final verse, lowered his hands, and knelt with his head bowed. He stayed there a long time. Long enough for the three hatchlings on Daenerys to fall asleep. Long enough for the coals to burn down by half. Long enough for Limpick's legs to go numb. Then Viserys opened his eyes, stood, and turned to face him.
His expression was one Limpick had never seen before. Not pride. Not greed. Not madness. Not gentleness. Not peace. It was the look of a man who had finally stopped fighting. He had stopped trying to make the dragons love him. He had stopped trying to prove he was a true dragon. He had let it go. Not in defeat, but in release. He had set it down on the ground behind him and walked away without looking back. He no longer wanted it. He only wanted the fire.
"The Lord of Light is real," Viserys said. His voice was steady—steadier than Limpick had ever heard it. "I saw it in the flames. The light is real. The fire is real. Nothing else matters."
Limpick watched him. Viserys's purple eyes were bright, almost transparent, yet something burned deep inside them. Not the wild hunger from before. Not the despair of rejection. Something cleaner. Purer. Like flame. Like dying embers. Like coals that had burned all the way through. He believed now—not because he wanted to, but because he needed to. He needed something that would never reject him. Fire wouldn't reject him. Fire wouldn't bite him. Fire wouldn't choose Daenerys over him. Fire was fire. Everyone who touched it got burned the same way. That fairness—that cold, equal cruelty—was a comfort. He had finally found something that didn't turn him away. He held on tight.
Limpick stepped forward and placed a hand on Viserys's shoulder. The muscle beneath was hard and tight, like stone. Viserys looked down at the hand—long fingers, sharp knuckles, ink stains caught in the nail beds from years of writing. This hand had carried cargo in Riverrun, split wood in Harrenhal, written High Valyrian on Dragonstone, and touched a dead dragon in a fish pond outside Pentos. Now it rested on his shoulder with no heat, no cold—just presence.
Viserys lifted his own hand and laid it over Limpick's. His fingers trembled, barely noticeable. He squeezed once, then let go.
"Thank you," Viserys said.
Limpick withdrew his hand and stepped back. "Don't thank me. Thank the fire."
Viserys turned to the brazier, knelt again, stretched his hands into the flames, and closed his eyes. This time he prayed slowly, steadily, every word clear and calm. His voice rolled through the hall like a low hum of bees.
Daenerys crouched beside the brazier, the three hatchlings curled together in her palms—one in each hand, the third draped across her wrist like a living stone. She watched her brother kneel and pray. Something moved in her purple eyes—not light, not tears. She wasn't sure she was still looking at the brother she had always known. The Viserys she remembered had kept his chin high, his back straight, his fingers shaking, his eyes on the ceiling. That Viserys had never knelt. That Viserys had never said thank you. That Viserys had never spoken to dragon eggs like they were living things or burned his own wounds in the fire before continuing to pray until his voice cracked.
She looked at his back for a long time. Then she lowered her head and brushed her lips against the head of the largest hatchling. Its scales were cool, hard, and thin enough that she could feel the faint warmth beneath. It opened its golden eyes, looked at her once, and closed them again.
Limpick stood beside the altar, watching Viserys pray and Daenerys cradle the three sleeping hatchlings. The brazier burned bright, casting three long shadows on the wall—tall, short, and in between—swaying like dancers. He reached inside his robe and closed his fingers around the dragon bone. Cool. Still. He held it tight for a long moment, then let go and tucked it away. He turned, walked out of the hall, crossed the courtyard, and returned to his room.
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 closed his eyes.
…