On the evening of the sixth day they reached the outskirts of King's Landing.
Limpick stood on a small hill and took in the city. It was bigger than he'd imagined. Brown walls, tall and thick, topped with battlements and towers. Inside, houses packed together like a beehive—stone, wood, thatch, everything jammed tight. On the hill to the north rose a massive red-brick castle with seven towers stabbing at the sky. The tallest flew a banner: Baratheon's crowned stag, black on gold, snapping in the wind. That was the Red Keep, where King Robert lived.
To the south lay Blackwater Bay, blue and endless. The water was thick with ships—big ones, small ones, merchant vessels, warships—masts standing like a forest. Across the bay, faint hills and islands were just visible. Dragonstone waited somewhere out there, on the far side of the sea.
Limpick stared for a long time. He'd spent eighteen years in Riverrun and had never seen a city this size, never seen the sea, never seen so many ships.
"We're here," he said quietly, half to himself, half to the two behind him.
Ember stepped out of the treeline and stood beside him. It didn't crouch—just stood there, golden eyes locked on King's Landing. Its pupils narrowed to slits, studying the walls, the towers, the crowded roofs. Plume launched off its back, circled once, and settled on Limpick's shoulder, also staring at the city.
"You two can't go in," Limpick said. "Too many people. You set one foot inside and the whole city knows inside an hour."
Ember's ears twitched.
"Find a place to hide. Somewhere empty outside the walls. I'll finish my business and come get you."
He scanned the area. Open country north of the city—rolling hills and thick woods stretching far into the distance. To the west, fields and villages. East, the coastline.
"There," he pointed north. "That big stretch of forest. It runs all the way from the city's north edge into the hills. Deep enough that nobody goes in. Stay hidden."
Ember looked at the woods, then back at him. A low sound rolled from its chest—not the usual rumble, something heavier, deeper. Plume flew up, landed on Ember's head, and let out a sharp call that carried across the empty fields.
"I know," Limpick said. He stepped close and pressed his face against Ember's scales. Cool and smooth on top, but warm underneath, like living skin. "I don't want to leave you either. But there's no other way. Wait for me here. I'll be back in a month at most."
Ember lowered its head and rested it on his shoulder. Heavy. Limpick braced himself and didn't step back. He wrapped his arms around the dragon's head and patted its scales, slow and steady, the way you'd soothe a child.
"You're the big brother," he said. "Keep an eye on her. Don't cause trouble."
Ember rumbled softly.
"And you," he added, looking up at Plume, "don't go stirring anything up. Don't fly too high. Don't let anyone see you. You may be small, but you don't exactly look normal—a white bird covered in scales."
Plume gave an indignant little call.
Limpick hugged Ember's head one last time and smoothed Plume's feathers. Then he stepped back and looked at them both.
Ember stood tall in the sunset. Its black scales had turned dark red, the same color as Harrenhal's five towers. Plume perched on its head, white feathers stirring in the breeze. One black, one white. One huge, one small. Standing in the wilds outside King's Landing with the setting sun behind them and the sea in the distance.
"Go on," Limpick said, waving them off. "Get moving."
Ember gave him one final look, then turned north toward the forest. It walked slowly, each step heavy, tail dragging a deep groove in the dirt. Plume stayed on its head, glancing back. Its gold-and-silver eyes caught the last of the sunlight and flashed.
Limpick stood on the hill and watched them go. Ember's black shape melted into the treeline. Plume lifted off, circled once overhead, then dropped back down and disappeared.
The woods went quiet. A salty wind blew in from Blackwater Bay, carrying the smell of seaweed. King's Landing glowed gold-red in the fading light—walls, towers, rooftops stacked like a painting.
Limpick stayed on the hill a little longer. He touched the small dragon bone inside his shirt—cool at first, then warming under his fingers. He touched the sealed letter from Marwyn—the wax still intact, the burning-sun stamp unbroken.
"Dragonstone," he muttered. "A whole mountain."
He turned and walked toward the city gates. The sun sank behind him, stretching his shadow all the way to the walls. He moved at a steady pace. Three coppers left in his pouch, half a piece of hardtack in his shirt, one set of rags, a rusty dagger, the letter, and the shard of dragon bone.
By the time he reached the gate it was almost full dark. The gates were still open. Guards lounged there, lazily checking people coming in. Limpick fell in behind a farmer pushing a handcart, kept his head down and shoulders hunched, trying to look like every other nobody.
The guard glanced at him and waved him through. No toll, no questions. Hundreds of paupers poured into King's Landing every day. One more didn't matter.
Limpick stepped inside the walls and paused. The streets were narrow and dark, houses three or four stories high leaning over each other until the upper floors almost touched. The air was thick—fish stink, shit, garbage, and a sour smell that reminded him of Riverrun's slums but heavier. People shoved past, shouting, haggling, voices from every corner of Westeros and beyond.
He let the crowd push him forward a step. An hour ago he'd been out in the wilds with his face pressed against a dragon's scales. Now he stood in the middle of King's Landing, surrounded by noise and stench. Two different worlds, separated by a single wall.
He touched the letter in his shirt. The red temple by the Old Gate. Find it, hand over the letter, get on a ship to Dragonstone.
He pushed into the crowd and headed west. After a few blocks he spotted it—a wide, low building of red stone. Two braziers burned at the entrance, flames dancing in the night wind. Two men in dark-red robes stood guard, dressed exactly like Marwyn.
Limpick walked up and pulled out the letter.
"Marwyn sent me," he said. "From Harrenhal. He told me to come here for passage to Dragonstone."
They looked at the letter, looked at him, then one nodded and opened the door.
Limpick stepped inside. The temple was large and dim, lit only by the fire basin on the altar. The flames were orange-red, just like the one back in Harrenhal. He stood in the doorway, staring at the fire, and suddenly felt bone-tired. Almost a month on the road from Harrenhal to King's Landing—walking, hiding, scrounging for food and water. It was finally over.
He found a corner, sat down against the wall, and closed his eyes.
For a second he could still hear claws on stone—thud, thud, thud—steady, following him for hundreds of miles.
Now it was gone.
Limpick opened his eyes and looked around the empty temple. The fire crackled on the altar, throwing his lonely shadow across the wall.
He slipped his hand inside his shirt and gripped the dragon bone. It had grown warm again. He held it tight.
"One month," he whispered. "At most one month."
He leaned back against the wall, listened to the flames, and slowly drifted off to sleep.