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Limpick looked at her. She knelt before him, red robe spread across the stone, hair loose, her face wearing an expression he had never seen before—not the dignity of a priestess, not the sternness of a teacher, not the mystery of a prophetess. It was soft. Fragile. Like someone had splashed a ladle of water onto the hearth fire; the flames flickered once, nearly going out.
He suddenly remembered the old dockside drunks back in Riverrun. When they got drunk they would wrap their arms around the tavern women and spout nonsense—"You make me feel… You remind me of… After all these years… Maybe it wasn't all for nothing." The next morning, sober, they remembered nothing and went back to hauling cargo exactly as before.
But Melisandre had not been drinking.
She stood and walked to the hearth, turning her back to him. Her shadow stretched long across the wall, swaying in the firelight. Her shoulders trembled—lightly, so lightly you would miss it unless you were watching closely.
"Would you—" she began, then stopped. A long moment passed before she continued. "Would you come a little closer to the fire?"
Limpick stared at her, not understanding.
"I mean—" She turned to face him. The hearth flames roared behind her, outlining her in gold and red. Her face fell into shadow, but those two red eyes still burned, as bright as Ember's eyes when it swallowed dragon bone. "You are the most devout person I have ever met. Your devotion did not come from books. It did not come from memorized scripture. It grew from your heart. It burns from your bones. I—" She took one step forward and held out her hand, palm up, reaching toward him. "I want you closer to me. Not as teacher and student. Not as priestess and believer. Closer than that."
Limpick sat in the chair and looked at her hand—palm upward, fingers slightly parted, red nails gleaming in the firelight. That hand waited for him. His mind went blank for a heartbeat, then spun rapidly. What did she mean by "closer"? How close? Did she want him as her apprentice? Her assistant? Or— He lifted his gaze to her face. Her cheeks were flushed in the firelight, lips parted, something shifting in her eyes—like water, like flame. He understood.
She was offering herself.
Sweat broke out along Limpick's spine again. Not from emotion, but from fear. Melisandre—the red priestess of the Lord of Light, the woman who saw the future in flames, Stannis Baratheon's most trusted advisor—was offering herself to him. How old was she? He had no idea, but she was certainly far older than he was—far older than he could imagine. He remembered what the old dockside drunks used to say: when you're young you don't notice, but when you're older you learn that nine out of ten women who throw themselves at you want to eat you alive. Not literally—just your time, your strength, your life. He shoved the thought down, stood up, and took one step back.
"Lady Melisandre," he said. His voice was steadier than he expected. "I cannot."
Her hand hovered in the air, neither withdrawing nor moving. "Why?"
"Because—" Limpick lowered his head and put on the devout expression he had practiced for so long in the red temple—brow slightly furrowed, mouth turned down, eyes half-closed as if gazing at something far away. "I belong to the Lord of Light. To no one else."
Melisandre's hand slowly lowered to her side. She looked at him. Something shattered in her red eyes—no, not shattered; it wavered, like a flame stirred by wind, then steadied again.
"What did you say?" Her voice was very soft.
"I came to Dragonstone," Limpick said, "because of the fire. Nothing else. I read, I write, I recite, I pray—all to draw closer to the fire. Not for—" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Not for anything else."
Melisandre watched him for a long time. The hearth crackled, throwing her shadow across the wall in long, unsteady strokes. Her expression shifted—from softness to stiffness, from stiffness to calm. The crack sealed itself. The fragile thing withdrew. She became the priestess of the Lord of Light once more—noble, mysterious, untouchable Melisandre.
"You are right," she said. Her voice had returned to its usual low, steady tone. "You belong to the Lord of Light. To no one else." She turned back to the hearth, giving him her back. "Forget what I said just now."
Limpick stood behind her, watching her silhouette. Her shoulders no longer trembled; they were straight and rigid. The red robe hung perfectly still, hiding her body, her hands, her feet. She stood before the fire like a statue, motionless.
"I—"
"Go," she said. "No more reading today. We will continue tomorrow."
Limpick stood there a moment longer, then turned and walked out. At the door he paused and glanced back. She was still facing the hearth, back to him, copper-red hair shining like living flame. Her shadow stretched long and thin across the wall, swaying like a candle in the fire.
He stepped into the corridor and closed the door gently. Alone in the hallway he let out a long breath. His robe was soaked through with sweat, clinging cold to his skin. He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, heart pounding—thud, thud, thud—loud in his ears.
He had refused her. Refused Melisandre. The priestess who had lived for centuries, servant of the Lord of Light, the woman who saw the future in flames—he had refused her. Not because he truly belonged to any god, but because he was afraid. He was afraid that if she came any closer she would smell the dragonglass hidden against his chest, would catch the scent of dragons on him, would discover the two beasts waiting for him in the woods north of King's Landing. He was afraid those hands—that pair of eyes that could see the future—would strip away every lie and leave him naked: just a penniless, illiterate pauper from Riverrun who spoke nothing but falsehoods.
He touched the dragonglass inside his robe. Six pieces, cool against his skin. And the dragon bone, warm, rising and falling with his heartbeat.
He straightened, walked down the long, dark corridor toward his room. Torches hissed on both sides, throwing shadows that stretched and shrank across the floor. His footsteps echoed—thud, thud, thud—exactly like the sound of Ember's claws on stone.
That night Limpick could not sleep. He lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. The stone was carved with dragons—large ones, small ones, flying, crawling, breathing fire, sleeping. Moonlight poured through the window and made their shadows dance across the vaulted ceiling as if they had come alive.
He kept seeing Melisandre's face—the way she had knelt before him, looking up, hand outstretched, palm open, waiting. Her voice: Would you come a little closer to the fire? He rolled over, facing the wall. More dragons were carved there, deep grooves filled with shadow. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. Sleep would not come.
He sat up, pulled the six pieces of dragonglass and the dragon bone from inside his robe, and laid them on the bed. Moonlight fell across them. The dragonglass gleamed jet black; the bone was pale gray. He ran his fingers over each one—cool, cool, cool, warm. When he reached the last piece his fingers stopped.
The dragon bone was hotter than it had been a month ago. Not slightly—noticeably. Something inside it was burning again, rekindled from the ashes. He lifted it close to his eyes. A faint dark-red glow pulsed across its surface, slow and steady, exactly like a heartbeat. The same glow he had seen in the cavern beneath Harrenhal. The same glow beneath the waters of the Gods Eye.
He closed his fist around the bone, gripping it tight. His own heartbeat fell into rhythm with the light—thud… thud… thud—slow and unhurried.
"Ember," he whispered. "Wait just a little longer. It's almost time."
He put the stones away, lay back down, and closed his eyes. This time sleep came.
The next morning he went to the library. Melisandre did not appear. He read, wrote, and recited on his own. At noon a tray arrived; he ate quickly and returned to the books. In the evening Melisandre finally came. She wore her usual red robe, hair neatly bound, face expressionless, as if nothing had happened the night before. She sat across from him, opened The Song of Prophecy, and pointed to the eighth chapter.
"Read," she said.
Limpick lowered his head and began. His voice was steady, neither fast nor slow, every word clear. Melisandre sat opposite him and listened exactly as she always had. She did not mention last night. He did not mention it. The library held only the sound of his reading and the crackle of the brazier.
When he finished, Melisandre gave a small nod. "Good. Tomorrow we begin the ninth chapter." She stood and walked to the door, then paused without turning around. "You were right—you belong to the Lord of Light. To no one else." She left.
Limpick sat in the chair and watched her red robe vanish down the corridor. He touched the dragon bone inside his robe—warm against his chest. He lowered his head, turned the page, and kept reading.