"Do you know why I value you?" she asked.
Limpick thought for a moment. "Because I learn fast?"
"Not just fast," she said. "Because you are real. Everything you do—reading, writing, praying, helping—is genuine. You don't go through the motions. You don't slack off. You don't put on an act. When you kneel, you really kneel. When you lower your head, you really lower it. When you recite scripture, you are truly reciting it, not just saying the words to get it over with." She stared into the flames; the firelight made her red eyes burn even brighter. "Most people in this world do things for others to see. When they pray they wonder how they look to everyone else. When they give alms they wonder if people will be grateful. When they study they wonder if others will think them learned. You are not like that. When you do these things—what are you thinking about?"
Limpick was silent for a while. "I'm thinking about fire."
"Thinking about what part of it?"
"About why it keeps burning. No matter whether anyone watches it, no matter whether anyone adds wood, it burns. When the wood is gone it dies, but when someone adds more it comes back to life. It doesn't care what others think. It just burns."
When he finished speaking he surprised even himself. He had been talking about fire, but in his mind he had been thinking of Ember and Plume. They were the same—whether anyone watched them or not, they kept growing. No one fed them; they hunted for themselves and grew stronger. They didn't care what others thought. They simply grew.
Melisandre turned to face him. Her eyes shone like the flames themselves; his reflection floated tiny inside her red pupils, trapped between two fires. "That is why I value you. You have seen the true nature of fire—not a tool, not a weapon, not a symbol of faith. Just fire. It burns because it burns. There is no other reason."
She reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder. Her palm was hot; the heat sank through his robe and made his skin tingle. "Limpick," she said, "I want you to do something for me."
"What?"
"I want you to lead the prayers with me. Not standing behind adding wood—standing at the front of the altar beside me, reciting the scriptures together."
Limpick froze. "I can't. I've only been studying for two months."
"You can. You understand fire better than most people I have ever known. When someone who truly understands fire recites the words, it is different from someone who does not." She withdrew her hand, turned back toward the altar. "Starting tomorrow."
That night Limpick lay in bed, fingers resting on the dragon bone against his chest. It was hotter than it had been two months earlier—warm as a small coal, not burning but enough to keep him awake. He took out the six pieces of dragonglass as well and laid them on the bed one by one. Moonlight fell across them, turning them jet black and gleaming, like six eyes watching him in the dark.
Soon. In a little while he would find a chance to return to King's Landing. He would bring the stones to Ember and Plume and let them absorb them. Then—then he would have to find a way to claim the dragonglass vein beneath Dragonstone. Not one piece, not ten—a whole mountain. He closed his eyes and pictured the volcano under the island, the fire that had burned for thousands of years, the black stones formed from its molten heart. An entire mountain. All dragonglass.
He rolled over, put the stones away, and closed his eyes.
The next evening Limpick stood at the front of the altar. Not behind it. Not to the side. In front. Melisandre stood to his right; the two of them faced the iron brazier together. The flames roared high, orange-red, heat rolling against his face until his skin felt tight. A dozen or so people stood in the hall—guards from the castle, servants, a few villagers who had come to pray. They stared at Limpick with curiosity, suspicion, even resentment. A pauper who had arrived only two months ago—why was he standing at the front of the altar?
Melisandre began the chant. Her voice rolled under the vaulted ceiling like the low hum of bees. Limpick recited with her. His voice was quieter and less steady than hers, but he spoke every word clearly, neither rushing nor hesitating. Halfway through he felt the flames change. Not their color—their direction. They had been leaping straight upward toward the roof. Now they began to lean toward him, as if something invisible were pulling them.
He faltered for half a syllable. Melisandre's voice continued beside him, calm and unbroken. He steadied himself and kept reciting. The flames leaned farther, until the entire column of fire bent toward him. Everyone in the hall could see it. Whispers spread through the crowd like rats scurrying along the walls.
When the prayer ended, Melisandre turned to the gathered faithful. "You have seen," she said. "The fire moves toward him. R'hllor has chosen him."
Limpick stood at the front of the altar, flames roaring before him, heat pressing against his face. He lowered his head and put on a humble expression. His heart beat fast—not from emotion, but because he did not know why. The fire really had moved toward him. It was not an illusion or a coincidence. The flames had bent sharply in his direction.
That night he returned to his room, took out the dragon bone, and held it in his palm. It was even hotter than it had been that morning. A faint dark-red glow moved across its surface, pulsing slowly in time with his heartbeat. He stared at the bone for a long time. Suddenly he remembered what Melisandre had once told him—some people were born able to feel fire. Not the ordinary heat against their skin, but something deeper. They could sense where the fire was, how strong it burned, whether it was alive or dying.
Perhaps she had been right. Perhaps he really could feel fire. Not because he was devout, but because of Ember. Because he had spent so long beside the dragon, breathing in the scent of dragonglass and dragon bone, his own body had changed—drawn closer to fire, recognized by flame.
He put the bone away, lay down, and stared at the dragons carved into the ceiling. Moonlight poured through the window; the carved dragons cast shadows that seemed to move across the stone as if alive.
He thought of the way Melisandre looked at him now—not appraising, not observing, but something hotter. She believed he was devout. She believed he was like her—chosen by fire, a servant of R'hllor, a man who would burn himself to light the world.
She believed.
She had lowered every last defense.
Limpick rolled over to face the wall. More dragons were carved there, deep grooves filled with shadow. He closed his eyes, pressed his hand to the dragon bone against his chest, and whispered words only he could hear.
"Do I really believe in any god?"
His voice faded in the empty room. No one answered. Outside, waves crashed against the cliffs with a sound like thunder. Blackwater Bay glittered under the moonlight, and far in the distance King's Landing was only a thin gray line on the horizon. In the woods north of the city, Ember and Plume waited for him.