Limpick had been asleep in the temple less than two hours when someone shook him awake. His first move was to feel for the dragon bone inside his shirt—it was still there, warm against his chest. His second was to look at the person standing over him: a short, plump woman in a dark-red robe, gray hair, face wrinkled like a dried-up apple. She held out a bowl of thin porridge.
"Eat," she said. "Marwyn's letter mentioned you walked the whole way from Harrenhal."
Limpick took the bowl and drank. It was watery, salty, and hot. He finished it in four swallows and handed the empty bowl back. The woman took it but didn't leave. She stood there looking him over from head to toe.
"Marwyn says you're headed to Dragonstone?"
"Yeah."
"What for?"
"A pilgrimage."
The woman gave him the same slow once-over Marwyn had—starting at his ruined shoes, moving up the rags, the sunken cheeks, and finally stopping on his eyes. "You believe in R'hllor?" she asked.
"Yeah." The word came out smooth. He'd learned back in Riverrun: say certain things often enough and you stop caring whether they're true or not.
She nodded, no more questions. "The ship to Dragonstone leaves the day after tomorrow. Stay put here until then. King's Landing isn't Harrenhal—street's full of every kind of trouble." She turned to go, stopped after two steps, and looked back. "By the way, what's your name?"
"Limpick."
"Limpick," she repeated, rolling the r the same thick way Marwyn did. "Stay in this corner. Don't cause problems. The people on Dragonstone—especially Lady Melisandre—don't like troublemakers."
Limpick nodded, leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes. This time he really slept.
He spent two full days in King's Landing.
He never left the red temple. It wasn't big—just one main hall, an altar, and a few small side rooms. Seven or eight followers of the Lord of Light lived there, some in red robes, some not. Every morning and evening they gathered at the altar, lit a fire, burned incense, and muttered prayers. Limpick sat in his corner and copied them—hands together, head down, eyes closed. He looked serious, but his mind was on Ember and Plume the whole time.
They were up in the northern woods. Were they eating? Had anyone spotted them? Would Plume fly too high and get seen? Would Ember get restless and come looking for him? He thought about it for hours and still had no answers. All he could tell himself was that they were dragons, not dogs—they wouldn't starve.
Late on the second evening the plump woman came looking for him.
"Ship leaves at first light tomorrow," she said. "Get some sleep tonight. It's a short walk from here to the docks."
She handed him a robe—dark red, faded from washing, collar frayed at the edges but still a hundred times better than his rags. She gave him a pair of shoes too—old leather soles, two sizes too big, but better than bare feet. And a small cloth sack with a few pieces of hardtack and a fresh sealed letter.
"When you reach Dragonstone, give this letter to the men at the castle. They'll arrange a meeting with Lady Melisandre."
Limpick took the letter and tucked it inside his shirt next to the dragon bone. "Thank you."
The woman studied him a moment longer, then reached up and pulled something from around her neck—a cord with a tiny black stone no bigger than a fingernail. It glittered exactly like the dragonglass Marwyn had given him, only smaller.
"Wear it," she said. "R'hllor will watch over you."
Limpick bent his head so she could tie the cord around his neck. The stone settled against his chest, cool next to the warm dragon bone. One cold, one hot, right over his heart. "Thank you," he said again, and this time he meant it.
He was up before dawn the next morning. He pulled on the red robe, laced up the oversized shoes, slung the sack over his shoulder, and tucked the rusty dagger under the robe where it wouldn't show. When he stepped out of the red temple the sky was still black except for a thin gray line along the eastern horizon.
King's Landing smelled worse in the morning. Garbage from the night before sat in heaps, drunks and beggars sprawled in the alleys, some snoring, some cursing. Limpick picked his way through rotten cabbage leaves and fish bones, heading south. He passed one narrow street after another, following the growing crowd of early risers—cart pushers, porters, farmers driving livestock. He moved with the flow toward the docks. After about half an hour the smell of the sea hit him.
Salty. Fishy. Nothing like the Gods Eye. The wind off Blackwater Bay stuck to his skin, damp and thick.
The docks were bigger than he expected. Wooden piers stretched out like the teeth of a comb, jammed with ships—merchant vessels, fishing boats, a few warships with Baratheon stags carved on their prows. Dockhands shouted, cargo slammed down, haggling filled the air. It was louder than a market square.
Limpick searched until he found the right ship. Small, only a little bigger than a fishing boat, flying a red banner with the Lord of Light's burning heart. A tall, skinny man in a dirty red robe stood at the bow, barking orders while sailors loaded crates.
"Heading to Dragonstone?" Limpick asked.
The man turned and looked him up and down. "You the one from Harrenhal?"
"Yeah."
"Get on. Sit in the back and stay out of the way."
Limpick walked the gangplank and found a corner at the stern. The deck was stacked with crates—wooden, iron-banded, wicker—lashed down under oilcloth. He sat with his back against one, sack in his lap, and watched the dockhands work.
The sun rose over Blackwater Bay, gold-red and blinding on the water. Far out in the morning mist the faint shape of Dragonstone appeared—gray, hazy, just the outline of a mountain. Something stuck up from the peak, maybe towers or a castle. Limpick squinted but couldn't tell.
The ship finished loading in half an hour, cast off its lines, raised its sail, and eased out of the bay. King's Landing shrank behind them—walls, towers, the Red Keep—all of it sliding smaller until it became a thin brown line on the horizon.
Limpick sat at the stern and watched the city disappear. For a second he remembered the day he left Harrenhal, watching those five black towers shrink behind him while Ember and Plume stood at the edge of the woods. Now they were somewhere in the northern forest outside King's Landing. He hoped they had enough to eat. He hoped no one had seen them.
He reached inside his robe and touched the dragon bone. It was warm against his chest, rising and falling with his heartbeat.
The ship sailed east. The wind stayed light, the ride steady. Blackwater Bay turned from gray-blue to deep blue, almost black in the middle. The waves grew bigger and the boat started rocking. Limpick gripped the crate behind him, stomach sour, but he kept it down.