From that day on, Limpick started keeping count.
Not of how many days he'd survived, but of how much Number One's progress bar had moved.
He'd figured out the rhythm.
Every time the rat disappeared for an hour or two and came back, the bar crept up a notch. Sometimes 0.0001 percent, sometimes 0.0002, and once it jumped a full 0.0005. Limpick tried to do the math on how long it would take at that rate, gave up halfway, and decided it didn't matter. He wasn't going to live long enough to see the end anyway.
But at least it was moving.
The day it hit 0.01 percent, Number One changed.
That evening Limpick dragged himself back from the docks, dead tired, and dropped onto the ground outside his shack. Number One slipped out of the shadows like always and sat beside him.
Limpick glanced down and froze.
A single scale had grown at the tip of the rat's tail.
Tiny, smaller than a fingernail, dull gray and almost lost in the fur. But when he leaned in close, there was no mistaking it—hard, shiny at the edges, definitely not something a rat was supposed to have.
He reached out and touched it.
Number One turned its head and blinked at him, red eyes calm, no flinch.
Limpick ran his finger over the scale again, then checked the rest of the rat. Still a rat body, still a rat tail. Just that one lonely scale sitting there like a bad joke.
He let out a short laugh.
"You call this a dragon?" he said. "Looks more like mange."
Number One squeaked back, sounding almost annoyed.
Limpick's smile faded. He scooped the rat up—first time he'd ever done that—and held it close to his face.
The scale really was different.
Not just gray. Underneath the gray was black, and under the black was a faint dark red that seemed to move when the light hit it, like slow blood flowing inside.
He stared at it for a long time.
Number One stayed perfectly still in his palm.
Hoofbeats sounded in the distance.
Limpick looked up. At the mouth of the alley, a column of riders passed on the main road leading to Riverrun's main keep. House Tully banners snapped in the sunset, silver trout flashing.
He looked back down at the rat in his hand.
Those trout were silver.
What color would Number One's scales be someday?
Limpick set the rat down, stood up, and brushed off his backside.
"Let's go," he said. "Time to sleep."
The days kept rolling on the same as before.
Dock work came and went. Bread was sometimes soft, sometimes hard as a brick. Old Tommy's coughing was sometimes light, sometimes ragged. The hole in the roof sometimes leaked, sometimes didn't. Everything stayed the same.
Except a few things had changed.
Limpick started paying attention to rumors.
He used to tune it all out. What did noble business have to do with him? Whether King Robert had gained or lost weight, whether Lord Tywin was angry or smiling, how many more Stark sons had been born—none of it mattered. All he cared about was whether the dock overseer was in a good mood and if he could scrape together an extra copper.
Now he listened.
He'd drift over when dockhands gossiped. He'd squat by the tavern wall when someone was bragging. Bits and pieces came in: a knight granted new land, a lord taking a wife, trouble brewing in Dorne again, ironborn ships raiding the western coast.
He forgot most of it the moment he heard it. But his ears stayed open.
One afternoon he heard a name that stuck.
"Harrenhal."
It came from an old man with a bad leg selling salted fish by the docks. His son squatted beside him, cleaning fish guts.
"Changed hands again?" the son asked without looking up.
"Not yet," the old man said, "but it will. Mark my words—anyone who sits there ends up cursed."
Limpick crouched nearby, pretending to tie his shoe, ears wide open.
"Who's it this time?" the son asked.
"Don't know," the old man said. "Either some Casterly Rock lord or a Targaryen. King Robert's been trying to give the place away for years. Nobody wants it."
"Why?"
The old man glanced at his son and lowered his voice. "Ever hear of the Curse of Harrenhal?"
The son shook his head.
The old man started talking.
Limpick kept fiddling with his laces, tying and untying them over and over.
Harrenhal. Built by Harren the Black, burned by dragonfire, passed through more owners than anyone could count. Every lord who took the seat died badly. Casterlys had held it, Targaryens had held it. Now it sat empty. No one dared claim it.
When the old man finished, he spat on the ground. "That place is wrong. Better to beg in Riverrun than feast in Harrenhal."
Limpick stood up and walked back toward his shack.
Twenty steps later he glanced back. Number One was following, five or six paces behind as usual. The tiny scale on its tail caught the sunlight and flashed.
Harrenhal.
He'd never been there and didn't even know exactly where it was, but the old man's words kept turning in his head.
Better to beg in Riverrun than feast in Harrenhal.
He looked down at his own hands—bony, yellow, dirt packed under the nails.
Wasn't he already begging?
That night he lay on his pile of rags, wide awake.
Number One curled at his feet, sleeping soundly, tail tip resting against his ankle. The little scale felt cool against his skin.
Limpick stared at the hole in the roof and thought.
He could stay in Riverrun. It was poor and hungry, but he'd survived eighteen years here. He could survive another eighteen.
But—
He turned his head and looked at the small gray ball of fur.
It was at 0.01 percent now.
At this pace, how many years before it became a real dragon? A hundred? Two hundred? He'd be long dead and rotted by then.
What if he went somewhere else?
What if a different place could make Number One grow faster?
He didn't know. But the old man's words kept echoing: Harrenhal, built by Harren the Black, burned by dragonfire.
Dragonfire.
The Targaryen dragons had scorched that castle.
Did that place still carry something of dragons? Something that could speed things up?
He rolled over, facing the wall.
Stupid idea. An empty castle sitting there for decades—anything useful would've been looted long ago.
But what if?
Number One shifted at his feet, tiny claws brushing his ankle.
Limpick closed his eyes.
The next morning he went looking for the old salted-fish seller.
The man was still there, squatting behind his sad little display. Limpick crouched down like he was browsing.
"Harrenhal," he said quietly. "How do I get there?"
The old man looked him up and down—torn shoes, ragged clothes, sunken cheeks.
"What the hell do you want there for?"
"Heard it's empty," Limpick said. "Figured I might find some scraps."
The old man snorted. "Scraps? You know how big that place is? You'd get lost before you crossed the first courtyard."
Limpick stayed quiet.
The old man studied him again, eyes sharper this time.
"North," he said. "Follow the Trident north past the Gods Eye. On foot it'll take you seven or eight days."
Limpick nodded and stood up to leave.
"Hey," the old man called after him.
Limpick turned.
The old man opened his mouth, then shook his head. "Never mind. Go if you want."
Limpick walked away.
Number One slipped out from under the wall and followed.
That night Limpick didn't sleep.
He was figuring out the trip.
Seven or eight days on the road. How much food would he need? He had zero coppers. The black bread in his shirt would last two days at most. What would he eat? Drink? Where would he sleep?
And Number One.
He looked down at the gray ball curled at his feet. The rat was twitching in its sleep, legs kicking like it was dreaming.
He was taking it. Obviously.
But how? Carry it in his shirt? Would it stay? What if it ran off?
Limpick dug through his rags until he found a scrap of cloth, measured it, and started sewing.
The next morning he got ready.
There wasn't much to prepare. He turned the cloth into a simple pouch that tied at his waist—big enough for the rat. He tested it.
Number One watched from the side, blinking.
Limpick picked it up and tried to slip it inside.
The rat squirmed, poked its head out, and squeaked at him.
"Hold still," Limpick said, pressing it down. "It's seven or eight days of walking. You'll wear yourself out."
Number One kept pushing.
Limpick gave up and set it free.
They stared at each other.
"You want to go or not?" Limpick asked.
The rat didn't answer, but it didn't run either. It just sat there looking at him.
Limpick sighed.
"Fine," he said. "Run if you want. Just don't blame me if you get lost."
He turned and started walking.
Twenty steps later he heard the familiar scratching behind him.
The corners of his mouth lifted. He didn't look back.
They left Riverrun and headed north.
Limpick had never been outside the city before. The world beyond wasn't what he'd expected—no bandits, no wild animals, not even many people. Just fields and empty land, a few villages here and there. Dogs barked fiercely. People saw him coming and stepped inside.
He followed the Trident, drinking river water when he was thirsty, nibbling his black bread when he was hungry. Number One trailed behind sometimes, sometimes vanished into the grass for hours, but every time Limpick stopped to rest, the rat reappeared and sat beside him.
On the third day the bread ran out.
Limpick's stomach started growling nonstop.
That afternoon Number One disappeared longer than usual. When it returned, a smear of blood was on its muzzle. Limpick looked at it but said nothing. That night, starving, he felt the rat crawl into his palm and curl up small. He stroked the few scales on its back—there were three or four now—and for a moment the hunger didn't feel quite so bad.
On the fourth day he stole two potatoes from a village and nearly got caught.
On the fifth day he was so weak he sat down by the road and couldn't get up. Number One vanished again. When it came back, it dropped something at his hand.
Half a dead rat.
Limpick stared at it for a long time.
Then he skinned it, struck a spark with his flint, roasted it over a tiny fire, and ate it.
It was the worst thing he'd ever tasted in either life. He kept it down anyway.
Number One watched him eat, red eyes bright as two tiny stars.
On the sixth day he saw the Gods Eye.
A huge sheet of water, deep blue, stretching forever. Villages and fishing boats dotted the shore.
Limpick stayed clear of the villages. He looked like a beggar now; they'd either chase him off or lock him up as a thief.
He circled the lake, drinking from it, foraging for anything—wild berries, roots, bugs, whatever. Number One sometimes helped, sometimes hunted on its own, and always came back at night to sleep in his palm.
On the seventh day he saw Harrenhal.
Far off on the north shore of the Gods Eye, a massive black shape crouched against the sky.
Limpick stopped walking.
He'd seen Riverrun's castle—stone towers, sharp and proud where the three rivers met.
This was nothing like that.
It was enormous.
Five huge towers stabbed into the sky, black and jagged like five burned fingers. The walls were so high he couldn't see the top and so long they vanished into the distance. The whole thing looked like a sleeping giant beast that might wake up at any moment.
He stood there a long time, motionless.
Number One slipped out from his feet and sat beside him, staring up too.
The sun was setting. The last light painted the five black towers a dark red, like charred wood starting to glow again.
Limpick remembered the old man's words.
Burned by dragonfire.
He glanced down at Number One. The few scales on its tail caught the sunset and shone—gray shot through with black, black shot through with dark red.
The same color as those towers.
"Let's go," Limpick said. "Almost there."
He started walking again.
Number One followed, still five or six steps behind.
Harrenhal grew larger and larger until it filled his entire view.
Limpick stopped at the entrance and looked up at the two massive iron gates.
They were open.
Actually, the gates were gone. Only the huge hinges remained, rusted and hanging from the stone, creaking in the wind.
Beyond the gateway was pure darkness.
Limpick stood there, suddenly afraid to step inside.
Number One trotted past his feet, went a few paces into the blackness, then stopped and looked back.
Its red eyes glowed like two lanterns in the dark.
Limpick took a deep breath and followed.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the golden text he hadn't seen in days flashed in his mind—
[Detected environmental energy: Ancient Dragon Residual Flame]
[Evolution energy absorption in progress…]
Limpick froze.
Number One sat at his feet. The scales on its tail suddenly lit up, glowing like they were on fire.