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Game of Thrones: Archer's Ordinary Life
Daenerys came in wearing the dark red robe, her silver hair tied back with a rope, the braid hanging straight down her back until the tip brushed her waist. She carried the three hatchlings in her arms—two curled in her palms, the third draped across her forearm with its tail wrapped around her wrist. She walked straight to the brazier, crouched, and set them on the floor. They crawled away at once, forming a neat half-circle around the flames just as Viserys had taught them. Their eyes were open now—golden, wide, vertical pupils narrowed to thin black lines in the firelight. They stared only at the fire. Not at Limpick. Not at Daenerys. Not at anyone else. Just the fire. Viserys had taught them well.
"Did you sleep last night?" Daenerys asked. She was looking at his hands—the fingers still red, the new pink flesh tender and raw like freshly peeled bark.
"I slept," Limpick said. "Woke early."
"You went to the sea."
Not a question. Limpick met her eyes for a second but said nothing. She took his hand anyway, turned it over, and studied the palm. The old calluses from hauling cargo in Riverrun were gone, worn smooth by months of writing on Dragonstone and stained dark with ink that never quite washed out. She traced the faint marks for a long time before setting his hand down.
"What did you see?" she asked.
Limpick stayed quiet a moment. "Dragons on the sea. Five of them. Coming from the east, heading west. Huge—bigger than ships. Gray-white, moving through the mist. Couldn't see much detail."
Daenerys's purple eyes lit for a single heartbeat—quick, bright, then gone. She pushed the light down, lowered her head, and watched the three hatchlings on the floor. They still faced the fire, golden eyes unblinking, pupils thin as threads.
"Those dragons—do they have anything to do with you?" she asked.
Limpick thought about it. "They used to. Not anymore."
Daenerys didn't push. She crouched by the brazier, lifted the largest hatchling into her palm, and watched it roll over, pink belly exposed, the faint pulse visible beneath the thin skin. She brushed her thumb across it once. The little tail curled and wrapped around her wrist like a living bracelet.
"They like me," she said softly, almost to herself. "But I don't know why. I'm not a dragon. I've never raised one. I don't understand any of it."
Limpick watched her and remembered Melisandre on Dragonstone, standing before him and saying he had been chosen by fire. He hadn't known why back then either. He had only known that fire was real. Fire didn't lie. Daenerys was the same. She didn't know why these hatchlings trusted her. She only knew they were alive, that they needed warmth and food and someone to keep them safe. So every morning she lifted them from their nest, set them by the brazier, and fed them tiny pieces of chopped fish, pinching each morsel between her fingers and offering it one by one. When they nipped her—small, needle-sharp bites—she never pulled away. She waited, let them finish, then kept feeding. She was simply taking care of them. Nothing more.
Viserys entered wearing the same old dark-blue coat, buttons fastened straight, silver hair combed smooth and gleaming like metal in the firelight. He walked to the brazier, crouched, and looked down at the three hatchlings. They didn't look back. They only watched the flames. Viserys reached toward the largest one, then stopped. His eyes dropped to the two small puncture scars on the webbing of his hand—dark red, already scabbed. He pulled his hand back and rested it on his knee. He studied the hatchlings for a long time. Then he stood, moved to the far side of the brazier, knelt, stretched both hands into the fire, closed his eyes, and began to pray. He didn't look at the dragons anymore. He only looked at the fire. He had set that thing down—on the ground behind him, among the broken eggshells and ashes—and walked away without turning back. He didn't want it anymore. He only wanted the fire.
Limpick watched Viserys kneeling and praying, watched Daenerys feeding the hatchlings, watched the three small creatures squabbling and squeaking like mice in her palms. Everything looked ordinary. No one knew about the five gray-white dragons swimming through the morning mist. No one knew a dragon had died in the fish pond outside the city walls. No one knew he still carried the dragon bone from Harrenhal against his chest, or that before he stepped on that gray rat in Riverrun he had been just another dockside pauper—two coppers a day, black bread, a leaky shack against the wall. Those days felt like another lifetime now. Farther back than that, even. So distant the details had blurred. All he remembered clearly were the rat's eyes—red, watching him from the shadows beneath the wall like two tiny stars.
He crouched, slipped a hand 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 walked to the brazier, crouched, and slid his hand into the flames. It burned. He didn't flinch. He left it there until the skin turned red and a fresh blister rose, then drew it back, bit the blister open, sucked out the fluid, and tore away the dead skin. Fresh pink flesh showed beneath—tender, exactly like yesterday. He stood and turned to face the hall. The fire burned behind him, casting his long, thin shadow across the wall like a single candle flame.
One day, visitors arrived from Braavos—three of them, two men and a woman, dressed in dark red robes trimmed with gold at collar and cuffs, far finer than anything the Pentos priests wore. They rode tall black horses whose glossy coats shone and whose hooves rang sharply on the stone. The woman leading them looked about forty, lean-faced with high cheekbones and deep brown eyes that appeared almost black. Her gaze was hard and measuring, like a blade sizing up its target. Her name was Inara. She was a high priestess of the Red Temple in Braavos, outranking even Melisandre in the Lord of Light's hierarchy. Limpick had heard the name on Dragonstone; Melisandre had spoken it with an unreadable tone—neither respect nor jealousy, but something quieter, like one traveler watching another who had walked farther and wondering how she had managed it.
Inara stood in the center of the hall, looking around—at the brazier, the altar, the tapestries. Her eyes touched each thing briefly, as if confirming it was still there, then moved on. At last her gaze settled on Limpick and stayed. She studied him from head to toe, then back again. Twice. Then she walked straight to him, stopped, and held out her hand. It was thin, knuckles sharp, nails cut short, the palm ridged with calluses—not from writing, but from gripping something harder. Limpick took it. Her hand felt dry and hard, without warmth, like sun-baked wood.
"Melisandre wrote a great deal about you in her letter," Inara said. Her Common Tongue carried a heavy Braavosi roll on the r's, turning his name into something closer to "Limpika." "She said you saw blue light in the flames. She said the fire leans toward you. She said you were chosen."