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At noon he saw Dragonstone.
From a distance the island looked like a single mountain—steep, black, the same charred color as Harrenhal's towers. Cliffs dropped straight into the sea; white foam exploded against the rocks below. At the summit sat the castle itself—Dragonstone Castle, the old Targaryen seat. It was smaller than he had imagined, but squat and solid, built of the same black stone, round towers and low walls that made it look less like a Westerosi fortress and more like some great beast crouched on the mountain, waiting.
The ship eased up to the dock. Two short piers jutted out, one leading to the castle gate, the other to a tiny fishing village at the mountain's foot. A handful of men in Baratheon yellow-and-black waited on the planks. The tall, skinny red-robed sailor from Limpick's ship jumped ashore, spoke briefly, and pointed straight at him. One of the men nodded and strode over.
"You the one from Harrenhal?"
"Yeah."
"Letter."
Limpick pulled Marwyn's sealed letter from inside his robe and handed it over. The man broke the wax, read it quickly, folded it again, and tucked it away. "Come with me. Lady Melisandre wants to see you."
Limpick blinked. He had expected days of waiting, maybe even begging at the gates. "Now?"
"Now. She saw your arrival in the flames this morning. She knew you were coming." The man turned without waiting for an answer.
Limpick followed him up a long, narrow stone stair that climbed the cliff face from the water all the way to the castle. The steps were steep; his oversized shoes slipped twice and his legs burned by the time they reached the top. He kept looking around. The whole island was stone—black, gray, brown—almost nothing grew. The sea wind whipped in, cold and salty, heavy with the sharp bite of sulfur.
Sulfur. He had smelled it before, faint and underground in Harrenhal's cavern. Here it was thick enough to sting the back of his throat, as if the mountain itself were breathing it out.
At the top the iron gates stood open, carved edge to edge with dragons—winged, wingless, fire-breathing, soaring. The carvings looked alive, muscles and veins and flames cut so deep they almost moved in the sunlight. Whoever had made them had seen real dragons.
They passed through the gates, down a long corridor, up another flight of stairs, and stopped before a heavy wooden door. The man knocked once.
"Come in."
The voice was low, calm, certain.
The door opened onto a high, arched hall lit only by a great fireplace at the far end. Orange-red flames roared inside the hearth, throwing long shadows across the black stone walls. A woman stood before the fire.
She was taller than Limpick by half a head. Her dark-red robe was new silk, gold thread glinting at collar and cuffs. Copper-red hair spilled down her back, the exact color of the flames behind her. Her skin was milk-white, untouched by sun. But it was her eyes that stopped him.
Red. Deep, blood-red, the same molten shade as the center of a fire—or the exact color Ember's eyes had turned after it swallowed the first piece of dragonglass.
Melisandre.
"Limpick," she said. It wasn't a question. "From Harrenhal. You walked a long way."
Limpick stood in the doorway, unsure whether to step inside. "Marwyn sent me. I came… for a pilgrimage."
Melisandre studied him. Those red eyes moved slowly—face, rags, oversized shoes, then lingered on the slight bulge inside his robe where the dragon bone and the smaller dragonglass rested against his skin. His heartbeat stuttered.
"What do you carry against your heart?" she asked.
Limpick's hand rose without thinking, pressing over the two objects—one warm, one cold. "Nothing important. A stone. A charm. The red temple in King's Landing gave it to me."
She said nothing for a moment. Then she turned back to the fire. "Do you know why this place is called Dragonstone?"
Limpick shook his head, then remembered she couldn't see him. "No."
"Because beneath this mountain lies an entire vein of dragonglass—the largest in all Westeros." She lifted one hand toward the flames. "Dragonglass is R'hllor's own gift. Crystallized fire. Light made solid. It drives back darkness, slays the Others, protects the faithful when the Long Night comes."
She turned again and picked something up from the mantel. A piece of dragonglass bigger than both his fists, black and glassy, edges sharp enough to cut. She placed it in his hands.
It was heavy. The moment his fingers closed around it, golden text exploded across his vision:
[Detected high-purity dragonglass ×1]
[Absorbable]
[Estimated evolution gain: 1.1%–1.4%]
His hand trembled once. He gripped it tighter so she wouldn't notice.
"For you," Melisandre said. "Marwyn wrote that you are a devout man. You walked from Harrenhal to King's Landing and sailed here only to pray before the holy fire. R'hllor favors the fervent."
She stepped back to the hearth. Firelight painted her white skin red and turned her copper hair into living flame. Those blood-red eyes watched the fire dance.
"How long do you wish to stay on Dragonstone?" she asked.
"I don't know," Limpick answered honestly. "I want to pray before the fire. As long as I'm allowed."
"You are allowed," she said. "There is a cell for you. Morning and evening prayers are held here. You may sit before the flames for as long as you wish." She glanced at him again. "Are you afraid of fire?"
Limpick thought of the winter nights in Riverrun, of the tiny, dying flames he had huddled over so he wouldn't freeze. "No."
"Why?"
"Because fire is warm. Without it you freeze to death. In Riverrun I kept a fire every night—small, almost nothing, but it kept me alive until morning. No fire, and I would have died long ago."
Melisandre's red eyes flickered with something that might have been approval. "You speak truth. When the Long Night comes, only fire will save us. Only the Lord of Light can protect us."
She turned fully toward the hearth once more and began to chant.
Her voice was low, rapid, in a language Limpick had never heard—Valyrian, perhaps, or the High Speech of old Volantis. The words rolled and hissed under the arched ceiling like a swarm of bees. The flames in the hearth surged higher, as though they recognized the prayer.
Limpick stood perfectly still, the heavy dragonglass warm in his palm, the dragon bone and the smaller stone pressing against his chest. He could feel his heart beating against them—fast, steady, alive.
Outside, the sea crashed against Dragonstone's black cliffs. Inside, the fire roared.
And somewhere far to the north, in the woods beyond King's Landing, two dragons waited for him.
He closed his fingers tighter around the new piece of dragonglass.
One point one to one point four percent.
It was enough for now.