After that night, Melisandre's attitude toward Limpick changed. It was not a deliberate, careful change—it was something deeper, more fundamental, as if a hidden bolt inside her had finally slid loose. Before, she had looked at him the way a smith looks at raw ore—weighing, examining, testing to see what lay hidden inside. Now she looked at him as if she already knew what was inside: a decent stone, no longer needing to be weighed.
She began taking him to prayer.
Not the silent, solitary prayers in the library, but the formal, ceremonial ones held in the great hall of the castle. Every morning and every evening she stood before the altar, the brazier blazing hot in front of her. She stretched both hands toward the flames and chanted the High Valyrian scriptures. Limpick stood three steps behind her, reciting along. His pronunciation was still imperfect—some of the rolled sounds refused to come out right—but Melisandre said it did not matter. R'hllor cared about the heart, not the accent.
The people in the castle began to notice him. The guards in Baratheon yellow and black, the servants who swept the halls, the cooks in the kitchens—their eyes changed. When he first arrived he had been "that pauper from Harrenhal"; no one spared him a second glance. Now he was "the man who walks with Lady Melisandre." In the corridors people stepped aside to let him pass. At meals someone always gave him an extra ladle of soup.
Limpick was not used to it. Back in Riverrun he had been the lowest of the low—anyone could curse him, shove him, step on him. Now that people made way for him, he felt uneasy. But his face showed nothing. He had learned Melisandre's expression: calm, unreadable, like a brazier fire that neither flared nor died.
About two weeks later, Melisandre had him moved out of the small cell and into a room on the upper floors of the castle. The room was modest, but it had a window overlooking the sea. The window was round, set deep in the thick stone wall, and through it he could see Blackwater Bay, deep blue waves glittering under the sun, with King's Landing reduced to a thin gray line on the horizon. There was a real bed—wooden frame, mattress, blankets—not just a scrap of cloth on the floor. Limpick sat on the edge of the bed all afternoon, afraid to lie down. He was terrified he would dirty the sheets.
"You will get used to it," Melisandre said from the doorway, watching him sit there motionless. The corner of her mouth moved—not quite a smile, but something lighter, as if a muscle in her face had relaxed for a moment. "Where did you sleep in Harrenhal?"
"On the ground," Limpick answered. "A pile of rotten rags."
"Much worse than this."
"Much worse," he agreed. "But I could still sleep."
Melisandre looked at him without speaking. She stood in the doorway, red robe stirring gently in the sea wind that blew through the window. The way she watched him had changed. Before it had been appraisal; now it was observation. Appraisal meant she was trying to discover what he was. Observation meant she already knew, and was waiting to see what he would become.
"Tomorrow," she said, "you will come with me to see Lord Stannis."
Limpick blinked. "Lord Stannis?"
"He is the lord of Dragonstone. You have been here nearly two months. It is time he met you." She turned and left, red robe whispering down the corridor.
Limpick sat on the edge of the bed, fingers pressed to the dragon bone against his chest. Two months. He had been on Dragonstone for two months. Ember and Plume had been waiting in the woods north of King's Landing for two months. He touched the six pieces of dragonglass sewn inside his robe—none missing. He needed to find a way back to them, but he could not leave yet. If he left now, Melisandre would grow suspicious. She had only just lowered her guard; he could not ruin everything. A little longer. Just a little longer.
The next morning Melisandre came for him. Lord Stannis Baratheon kept his chambers in the highest room of the castle—a round chamber with windows on every side, overlooking the whole of Blackwater Bay and Dragonstone itself. The room was cold. There was no hearth; sea wind whistled through the window slits. Stannis sat behind a large table covered with maps and letters. He wore plain dark clothes—no crown, no cloak, only an ordinary wool coat buttoned tightly at the neck. His face was lean, cheekbones sharp, a short beard of black and brown shot through with gray. His eyes were gray, pale as winter ice on a frozen river—cold, hard, without warmth.
"So this is the man you spoke of?" Stannis glanced at Limpick once. The look passed over him faster and with less interest than Melisandre's weighing gaze.
"Yes," Melisandre said. "Limpick, from Harrenhal. He is devout before the holy fire and learns quickly."
"Harrenhal," Stannis repeated. His gray eyes narrowed. "Does that place still stand?"
"It stands," Limpick said. "The five towers are still there."
"The five towers," Stannis grunted. "Harren the Black's towers. Someone burned them, yet they still stand. That place has the hardest stone in Westeros—and the hardest curse." He looked back down at his maps and waved a hand. "Stay on Dragonstone if you wish. Do not cause trouble. Melisandre says you are devout, so I will believe her. But if I discover you are playing any other game, you will regret it."
Limpick lowered his head. "I will not, my lord."
Stannis dismissed them with a flick of his fingers. When they left the chamber Limpick realized his back was wet with sweat again. Stannis's single glance had been nothing like Melisandre's. Melisandre's gaze had been warm; Stannis's had been cold—cold as the Trident in winter, freezing a man with one look.
"He does not like me," Limpick said.
"He does not like anyone," Melisandre answered. "But he trusts me. If I say you are devout, he will give you a chance. All you have to do is prove I was not wrong."
After that day Limpick's position on Dragonstone rose another notch. Melisandre began letting him take part in small tasks—not the secret, inner-circle work, but the outer, practical things. She sent him to the docks to meet supply ships from Volantis. She sent him to the fishing village at the foot of the mountain to hand out bread and salted fish. She had him stand beside the altar during prayers to add firewood, light candles, and pour lamp oil.
The tasks were small, but Limpick performed them with perfect seriousness. He arrived half an hour earlier than she asked. He did a little more than anyone required. When meeting ships he helped the sailors carry crates. When handing out bread he gave the old and the children an extra half loaf. When tending the fire he split the wood neatly, stacked it by size, and kept everything orderly. He spoke no extra words, asked no forbidden questions, looked at nothing he should not see.
Melisandre noticed everything. She never praised him, but her gaze grew softer—not the satisfied look of a teacher watching a student, but something deeper, as if she were seeing a shadow of her own younger self.
One evening after prayers, Melisandre asked Limpick to stay behind. The fire on the altar still burned, orange flames leaping inside the iron brazier, throwing the shadows of the two of them onto the wall—close together.