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That day, Limpick officially became Melisandre's assistant. Not just in name, but truly—standing beside the altar, participating in every prayer and ritual. His place was to her right, closer to the flames than anyone else.
Every morning before dawn he rose, washed with cold water—the water on Dragonstone was always icy, seeping up from deep underground and carrying the sharp scent of sulfur—then put on the new robe Melisandre had given him. It was dark red wool with simple black trim at the collar and cuffs. It lacked the lavish golden embroidery of hers, but it was better than anything he had ever worn before.
He stood in front of the mirror and looked at himself. The person in the reflection was different from the one who had left Harrenhal two months earlier. His face was still thin, but it was no longer the gaunt, starved thinness. It was a normal leanness. His cheekbones were less sharp, and there was a little more flesh on his cheeks. His eyes were different too—once dull and gray like stagnant water, now something harder glinted inside them, like polished iron.
He checked the dragonglass and dragon bone hidden against his chest. Six pieces of dragonglass and one dragon bone, kept in a pocket sewn into the inner lining of his robe. He had tried leaving them in his room once, but couldn't sleep, feeling as though something was missing. So he carried them everywhere. They clinked softly when he walked, but the sound was muffled by the robe and no one noticed.
The corridor was dark; the torches had not yet been lit. Only a faint gray light came from the window at the far end. He walked toward the great hall, passing closed doors and the staircase he had never climbed again. His footsteps echoed in the empty corridor—thud, thud, thud—exactly like the sound of Ember's claws on stone. Sometimes he deliberately slowed down just to listen to that rhythm a little longer.
In the hall, preparations were already underway. Two red-robed servants were adding charcoal and lamp oil to the iron brazier. An old man swept ash from the floor. The altar was made of stone, waist-high, carved with the sigil of the Lord of Light—a burning heart with flames rising from its top. The grooves were deep, blackened by centuries of smoke, and the edges had been worn smooth and shiny from countless hands touching them.
Limpick went to the altar and arranged the firewood and charcoal by size—large pieces at the bottom, smaller ones on top, charcoal on the very top, lamp oil poured last. This was a habit he had developed himself. It made the fire burn stronger, the flames leap higher, and kept them from dying too quickly. The first time Melisandre saw him do it, she stood and watched silently. After that, the task of tending the fire was given to him.
Dawn broke. Outside the windows, Blackwater Bay shifted from black to deep blue, from deep blue to gray-blue, and finally to a bright, glittering silver. The sun rose from the direction of King's Landing, bathing Dragonstone's black rocks in golden-red light and turning the castle towers the color of flame.
People began to arrive. First the castle folk—several guards, two cooks, the old sweeper. They stood at the back of the hall, leaning against the walls. Some closed their eyes and lowered their heads; others stared blankly at the brazier. Then came the villagers from the foot of the mountain—small groups in roughspun clothes, mud on their shoes, calluses on their hands. They knelt closer to the altar, hands pressed together.
Limpick stood beside the altar and watched them come in. He recognized some now: the lame blacksmith who always knelt at the very front, his knees bruised purple yet never complaining; the fishwife who added a small lump of her own rendered pork fat to the brazier each time, saying it was an offering to R'hllor; the boy with the birthmark on his face, only about ten years old, who walked up from the village alone, never spoke to anyone, knelt in the corner, and left as soon as the prayer ended.
Melisandre arrived. She wore her most formal robe—deep red silk embroidered with golden flames from collar to hem. With every step the embroidered flames seemed to dance. A large ruby necklace rested at her throat; the gem glowed like real fire in the light, red and scorching. Her hair was braided and pinned atop her head with golden rings, revealing her long neck and pale earlobes.
As she passed Limpick, she gave him a brief glance. It was short and light, but he understood it perfectly: Begin.
She stepped in front of the altar, raised her hands with palms facing down, and held them above the brazier. Her fingers were long and elegant, almost translucent in the firelight. She began the chant. Her voice was not loud, yet it filled the entire hall, each syllable echoing from every direction at once.
Limpick recited with her. Two months ago he could barely pronounce a single word. Now he could match her rhythm, knowing exactly where to pause, where to emphasize, where to lower his voice so the sound of the flames would carry over the human one. His High Valyrian was still imperfect—he stumbled on some longer words—but Melisandre said it didn't matter. The flames understood.
Halfway through the prayer, he felt it. A wave of heat surged from the brazier—not ordinary heat from burning wood and charcoal, but something deeper, heavier, thicker. It was as if a door deep underground had opened, letting the breath of molten rock rise. His skin began to tingle, starting at his fingertips and spreading up his arms to his elbows. It didn't hurt, but it prickled, like ten thousand tiny needles were pressing into him.
His voice changed. He wasn't doing it on purpose; it happened by itself—deeper, heavier, carrying a low resonance that seemed to rise from his chest. He heard his own voice echoing through the hall, intertwining with Melisandre's—one high, one low; one sharp, one deep—like two ropes twisted tightly together.
The flames in the brazier began to dance differently. Not the usual flicker caused by wind, but something else. Their color shifted—from orange-red to gold, from gold to white, from white to a very pale blue, like ice on a winter lake. The blue flames burned steady, not swaying, shooting straight upward like a sword.
Limpick felt the dragon bone against his chest begin to pulse. Not vibrate—pulse, beating in time with his heart, faster than usual. Thud… thud… thud… thud. He clenched his teeth and suppressed the pulse, refusing to let it show. His hands pressed against the altar, knuckles white.
Melisandre's voice suddenly rose an octave. She lifted her hands from above the brazier and stretched them toward the ceiling. Her sleeves fell back, revealing pale arms. Her voice grew louder, filling the vaulted hall until it sounded as though a hundred people were chanting at once. The flames followed her voice, surging upward. The blue sword became a pillar shooting from the brazier toward the roof.
Limpick felt the pulsing spread from his chest throughout his entire body. His heartbeat fell into rhythm with the flames—thud… thud… thud. He was no longer controlling it; something else was. His vision began to whiten—not blindness, but something different. He saw inside the fire. The center of the flame was hollow, like a tube, and at its deepest point something moved. Not flame, not smoke, but—
He saw Harrenhal. The five black towers burning red under the setting sun. He saw the Gods Eye, two dragon shadows—one black, one green—tangled together as they fell from the sky and crashed into the lake, sending up waves as tall as towers. He saw the woods north of King's Landing. Deep in the forest, a large black shape crouched beside a stream, drinking. Beside it stood a smaller, much brighter white shape, glowing like a lantern in the moonlight. He saw Ember. Ember lifted its head and looked in his direction—across hundreds of miles, across mountains, water, and cities—and opened its mouth. It made no sound, but Limpick knew it was calling him. It was calling for him.
Limpick's fingers twitched on the altar.
The blue flames suddenly surged upward, then shrank back to normal size. Their color faded from blue to white, white to gold, gold to orange-red. The fire danced in the brazier as if nothing had happened. Melisandre's voice gradually lowered until the final words were almost a whisper. She lowered her hands and turned to face the people in the hall. Her cheeks were flushed, a fine layer of sweat glistening on her forehead in the firelight. She looked at the kneeling crowd, the corners of her mouth lifting—not quite a smile, but something solemn, as though announcing something of great importance.
"R'hllor has heard us," she said. "The flames have accepted our prayer."
The crowd slowly dispersed. The lame blacksmith pushed himself up, knees bruised purple. The fishwife wiped tears from her eyes—she had been crying without realizing it. The boy with the birthmark stood up from the corner, gave Limpick a longer look than usual—as if confirming something—then lowered his head and left.
The hall grew quiet. The fire in the brazier had shrunk; most of the charcoal had burned away, leaving only a few glowing red pieces. Limpick stood beside the altar, hands still pressed to the stone, knuckles still white. His heart was still racing—thud… thud… thud—faster than normal, but slowly beginning to calm.