Limpick stared at the illustration in the open book. A black mountain crowned with a castle, dragons wheeling above it—black, red, gold—wings blotting out half the sky. For one dangerous second he thought: If Ember and Plume were here, on an island built on fire… He crushed the thought before it finished and kept his face blank.
"Dragonglass forms when the volcano erupts," Melisandre continued. "Molten rock cools into obsidian—dragonglass. Inside every piece is the remnant of fire—fire from the deep earth, R'hllor's own fire. That is why it can drive back darkness. That is why it can kill the Others. Because true fire lives inside it."
She turned a few more pages and tapped a line of text. "This passage explains the difference between dragonflame and ordinary fire. Read it."
Limpick lowered his head and read slowly, one word at a time. "'Dragonflame is not ordinary fire. It bursts from the deepest part of a dragon's throat, hotter than any forge, brighter than the sun. It melts stone, pierces steel, and consumes every living thing. Ordinary flames burn wood and oil. Dragonflame burns life itself.'"
He looked up.
"Do you understand?" she asked.
"Yes," Limpick said. "Dragonflame is different. It doesn't just burn things—it burns—"
"Souls," Melisandre finished for him. "Dragonflame burns the soul. When a dragon dies, its soul does not vanish. It remains in the bones, in the scales, in the dragonglass. That is why the stones of Harrenhal still glow—dragonflame seared them, and the fire's remnant has not died after hundreds of years." Her red eyes held his in the firelight. "You have seen that glow, haven't you? Deep beneath Harrenhal."
Limpick nodded. "I saw it. Dark red, pulsing, like a heartbeat."
"That is the remnant of dragonflame. The dragon is dead, but the fire never dies. R'hllor's fire never dies." She stood and walked to the window, pushing it open. Sea wind rushed in, thick with sulfur. "The same fire lives beneath Dragonstone. Not a remnant—an active, living fire. You can feel it under your feet right now. The floor is warm. The walls are warm. The air itself is warm. This castle was built on fire. It warms us, lights us, keeps us alive."
Limpick slipped his feet out of the oversized shoes and pressed his bare soles to the stone. It was warm—exactly like Ember's scales, a little hotter than human skin, soothing rather than burning.
"This is R'hllor's power," Melisandre said. "Not words on a page. Not prayers in a mouth. It is the heat beneath your feet, the flame before your eyes, the weight of the dragonglass against your chest. Books rot. Prayers are forgotten. Fire does not die. As long as the fire burns, R'hllor is here."
She turned back to him. "You carry dragonglass. More than one piece, yes?"
Limpick's heart stuttered. His hand rose without thinking, pressing over his robe where the three stones rested against his skin—one warm, two cold. He was quiet a moment, then nodded. "Three. One from Marwyn, one from the woman in the red temple at King's Landing, and one from you."
"Show me."
He pulled the three stones from inside his robe and set them on the table. The large dragonglass gleamed like fresh blood in the firelight. The small one from the plump woman looked dull and ordinary. The dragon bone was gray-white but warm to the touch. Melisandre picked up the bone, turned it slowly in her palm, ran her thumb across its surface, then lifted it to her nose and inhaled.
"This is not dragonglass," she said. "It is dragon bone. Where did you find it?"
"Underground in Harrenhal," Limpick answered. "I picked it up. Thought it looked interesting."
Melisandre examined the bone from every angle, then set it down. "There is still fire inside it. Weak, but burning. It was like this when you found it?"
"Yes. It grows warm if you hold it long enough."
Her red eyes studied him again—measuring, weighing something he could not see. "You carry many strange things," she said. "Dragon bone, dragonglass, and… something else. I cannot name it. But you feel fire, don't you? Not the heat that warms your skin. Something deeper. You can sense where the fire is, how strong it burns, whether it is alive or dying."
Limpick stayed silent. He thought of the cavern beneath Harrenhal—the pulsing red light in the dragon bones, the way he had felt it in his chest before he even saw it. He thought of the Gods Eye, standing on the shore while Ember drank the last of Vhagar and Caraxes, feeling the glow pulse under the water like a second heartbeat.
"I don't know," he said at last. "Maybe."
"Not maybe," Melisandre said. She pushed the dragon bone back toward him. "It is certain. Marwyn wrote that you asked to come here on pilgrimage. You cannot read. You had never left the Riverlands. You had no money, no companions, yet you walked from Harrenhal to King's Landing and sailed here on nothing but faith. Ordinary men do not do that. Only those touched by fire do."
She gathered the three stones and slid them back to him. "Keep them. They are yours."
Limpick tucked the stones inside his robe once more. The dragon bone was warm against his chest. The two pieces of dragonglass were cool. Pressed together they balanced, neither hot nor cold—just right.
Melisandre stood. "Tomorrow we continue with Dragon and Fire. When you finish this book you will understand why Dragonstone is holy ground." She left.
Limpick sat alone, fingers resting over the stones against his heart. He looked down at the open page. The illustration showed a massive black dragon, wings spread wide, flames pouring from its jaws. Beneath it was a line of text. He sounded it out slowly until the words came clear.
"Balerion the Black Dread, Aegon's dragon."
He stared at the black dragon and thought of Ember—black scales shot through with dark-red veins, the same color as the towers of Harrenhal. Ember could spit fire now. A small jet at first, but it had grown. Had it grown bigger still in the month since he left? Could it fly yet? The thought made his chest tighten with something between pride and worry.
He turned the page and kept reading.
Outside, the sea wind howled against the cliffs. Inside, the brazier crackled and the quill scratched across paper. Limpick bent his head over the book, sounding out every word about dragons and fire, the three stones warm against his heartbeat.
Somewhere far to the north, beyond King's Landing, two dragons waited.
He would return to them soon.
But first he would learn everything Melisandre could teach him.