He rolled over, facing the lake. The moon's reflection shimmered on the water, rocking gently.
But how the hell was he supposed to reach Dragonstone? He was stuck in Harrenhal, in the Riverlands, right in the middle of Westeros. Dragonstone sat east in Blackwater Bay—a full day and night by ship from King's Landing. He was a penniless pauper without even a pair of shoes. Walk there? How long would that take—one month? Two? What was he going to eat on the road? Sleep where? And once he reached King's Landing, how was he supposed to cross the Narrow Sea? No money, no boat, no one who knew him.
He touched the dagger tucked inside his shirt, then felt the empty pouch at his belt. Not a single copper.
He closed his eyes.
It had to be Marwyn. It had to be the Lord of Light's church. He needed them to take him to Dragonstone.
How? By becoming one of them. Not some beggar waiting for handouts—a real member. Baptized. Or whatever they called it—"receiving the fire." The official ritual that made you one of their own. Then he could give them a reason. Say he wanted to make a pilgrimage to Dragonstone, to see the priestess, to pray before the true holy fire. They loved that kind of thing—flames, pilgrimages, R'hllor's light.
He opened his eyes and stared at the moon overhead.
One more problem—Ember and Plume. What was he supposed to do with them? He couldn't drag a horse-sized dragon and a hawk-sized bird around the world. Forget Dragonstone; he wouldn't even make it out of Harrenhal. If Marwyn's people saw Ember, their first reaction would be terror or trying to kill the monster. He needed to hide them, or—
He thought for a long time and still had no answer.
Ember's breathing rose and fell behind him, the heat from its scales seeping through his clothes, warm and steady. Plume let out a soft, sharp cry in its sleep, the same sound he'd heard back in Riverrun when it was still a little white falcon.
Limpick closed his eyes. Tomorrow could wait.
The next morning he went back to Harrenhal and found Marwyn.
Marwyn sat in front of the altar, the fire basin blazing. He held the cloth bundle without opening it, staring into the flames. Limpick walked over and sat across from him.
"I've made up my mind," Limpick said. "I want to join the faith."
Marwyn looked up. Firelight danced across the burned side of his face. "We already talked about that yesterday."
"Not that," Limpick said. "I mean the real thing—the baptism. Or whatever you call it, 'receiving the fire.' The official ritual that makes me one of you."
Marwyn studied him. His right eye narrowed while the left one bulged red and unblinking. "You know what you're asking?"
"Yeah."
"You believe in R'hllor?"
Limpick paused for a second. "I believe in what I can see. Fire, light, heat. Those are real. The rest—I haven't seen it yet, but I'm not against it."
Marwyn let out a short laugh that rumbled in his throat. "Honest answer. Better than the ones who say they believe but don't in their hearts." He set the bundle on the ground and stood, moving to the fire basin. "The fire initiation isn't complicated. You kneel before the flames, receive the Lord of Light's blessing. The priest purifies you with holy fire, and then you belong to R'hllor." He glanced back at Limpick. "But there's one condition—you can't go back on it. Once you receive the fire, you're a servant of the Lord of Light. Your life isn't yours anymore. It's His."
Limpick nodded. "Fine."
"Not yet," Marwyn said. "We'll do it after we come back from under Harrenhal. That place you mentioned—the one with the dragon bones—we're going today."
Limpick hesitated. "That place… most of the bones down there are gone. I went before. Most of them rotted away, turned to dust. Just a few big pieces left, and they're falling apart too."
Marwyn's eyes flashed. "Rotten or not, I want to see."
They spent the whole morning getting ready. Marwyn gathered rope, torches, oilcloth, and picked two strong young men to come along. Limpick led them down through a cellar entrance on the east side of the castle, crawling through the narrow passage for about half an hour until they reached the cavern.
Marwyn held up a torch in the middle of the cavern, studying the glowing stones embedded in the walls—the faint dark-red light pulsing on and off. He examined them closely, running his hands over them, sniffing, even licking the wall once.
"Dragonflame," he muttered, almost to himself. "It burned right through the stone. How hot would that have been? Three thousand degrees? Five thousand?"
The two men started digging. They chipped out the remaining dragon bones from the walls and dropped them into sacks. There weren't many—seven or eight in total. The big ones were as long as Limpick's arm, the small ones fist-sized. Marwyn picked each one up, examined it, then set it back in the sack.
"Shame," he said. "Most of the energy's already gone. This place has been drained."
Limpick stood by the entrance, face blank. "What energy?"
Marwyn glanced at him but didn't answer. He tied the sack shut and slung it over his shoulder. "Let's go. We'll talk topside."
By the time they crawled out it was already afternoon. Marwyn set the sack of dragon bones beside the altar and left it untouched. He washed his hands, changed into a clean red robe, then had the others build a big bonfire in the courtyard—not the small one in the basin, but a real blaze. They stacked wood chest-high, doused it with lamp oil, and lit it. Flames shot up higher than a man, orange-red with black smoke, the heat pushing everyone back.
"You sure about this?" Marwyn asked, standing in front of the fire and looking back at Limpick.
Limpick stood three steps away. The heat slammed into his face, tightening his skin. His ragged clothes grew hot, his hair starting to curl. Staring into the flames, he suddenly remembered winter nights back in Riverrun—squatting by the city wall with a tiny fire made of rotten wood that burned out fast. He'd hold his hands out, warm one side, then the other. When it died he'd sit in the dark until morning.
"I'm sure," he said.
Marwyn nodded. He stepped up to Limpick and placed a hand on top of his head. The hand was burning hot—not body heat, but the kind that came straight from the fire. It made Limpick's scalp tighten, but he didn't flinch.
"Lord of Light R'hllor," Marwyn's voice changed—deeper, resonant, echoing from his chest like it carried power, "flame in the darkness, warmth in the cold, life in death. Watch over this child. Purify his soul with holy fire. Light his path so he does not lose his way in darkness, does not freeze in the cold, does not fear in death."
He lifted his hand from Limpick's head and pulled a burning branch from the fire. One end glowed red-hot, flames dancing along it, sparks hissing as they hit the flagstones.
"Kneel," Marwyn said.
Limpick dropped to his knees. The stone bit into his skin.
Marwyn held the flaming branch above his head, the fire an inch from his hair. Heat sank into his scalp and trickled down his forehead. He didn't move.
"In the name of fire, wash away your filth."
The branch moved in front of his face. Flames danced before his eyes—orange-red with white at the center and yellow edges, twisting left then right like they had a mind of their own. There was no wind in the courtyard.
"In the name of light, open your eyes."
The branch dropped to his chest. Flames pressed against his shirt over his heart, the heat sharp enough to hurt. He clenched his teeth.
"In the name of R'hllor, grant you new life."
Marwyn tossed the branch back into the fire. He drew a short knife from his belt—not Limpick's rusty one, but a real blade that flashed bright in the firelight. He sliced his own left palm, blood welling up and dripping into the flames with a sharp hiss and a puff of white smoke.
Then he handed the knife to Limpick.
"Your turn."
Limpick took the knife. It felt light and razor-sharp, much lighter than he expected. He copied Marwyn, slicing his own left palm. Not deep, but it stung. Blood flowed down his wrist and dripped onto the stone.
"Put your hand in the fire," Marwyn said.
Limpick froze. He stared at his bleeding hand, fingers trembling. He looked at the bonfire—chest-high, orange flames leaping, heat making his eyes sting.
"Put it in," Marwyn repeated calmly. "The Lord of Light will protect you."
Limpick drew a deep breath and thrust his hand into the flames.
Pain.
Excruciating pain. Flames licked his palm, fingers, wrist, burning his whole arm. He felt his skin blister, his flesh char, his blood boil where the cut met the fire. The agony nearly tore a scream from his throat, but he bit down hard, kept his hand steady, and didn't make a sound.