The next evening, Limpick stood at the very center of the altar.
Not beside it. Not to the side. Dead center—exactly where Melisandre usually stood. The brazier waited in front of him, charcoal already stacked: big pieces at the bottom, smaller ones on top, lamp oil poured over everything, ready to catch. He wore the dark-red wool robe. The black trim at the collar looked deep crimson in the firelight, like dried blood. His hands rested on the stone altar. The stone felt cool on the surface, but he could sense the heat underneath—this entire castle had been built on fire for centuries, the rock baked through, cool outside but burning inside, alive.
The hall was packed. Far more people than usual—not just the castle folk, but villagers from the foot of the mountain, fishermen from the other side of the island, and believers who had sailed over from the mainland. They crowded the walls, some kneeling, some standing on tiptoe to see the altar. Low whispers buzzed through the crowd, bouncing off the stone like a hive of bees.
Melisandre stood to his left, one step farther back than usual. Not behind him, not right beside him—one clear step away. She was giving him the position, making sure everyone could see who stood in the center today. She wore her most formal silk robe, deep red with golden flames embroidered from collar to hem. The large ruby at her throat glowed, something moving inside it in time with the firelight. Her copper-red hair was pinned up, exposing her full face—pale, high-cheekboned, with an expression that was hard to read. Not tension. Not anticipation. Something deeper, heavier. Like something she had waited a very long time for was finally happening.
She gave him one quick glance. Short. Light. But in it Limpick saw the same softness from the library—the fragile moment when the fire inside her had flickered and steadied again. Then the expression vanished. She lowered her eyes, folded her hands in front of her, and stepped back half a pace, turning herself into the background.
Limpick took a deep breath.
He pulled the flint stones from his robe—the same old pair he'd used back at Harrenhal, edges worn white, warm in his palm. He crouched, struck them against the brazier. Sparks flew, landed on the oil-soaked kindling, and hissed. A small flame caught, licking the tinder, the twigs, the larger logs, climbing slowly like a cautious animal. He stayed crouched in front of the brazier, watching the fire grow from nothing to something, from weak to strong. Orange-red flames danced inside the iron bowl, pushing waves of heat against his face, his chest, his whole body.
He stood, raised both hands with palms facing down, and held them over the brazier. The flames licked his palms—not burning, just warm, the same temperature as Ember's scales. He closed his eyes and began the chant.
"R'hllor, Lord of Light, flame in the darkness, warmth in the cold, life in death."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly. The High Valyrian syllables came out with a weight he hadn't heard in himself before—deeper, thicker, rising from somewhere low in his chest. Each word sounded scorched, dry, hot, carrying the taste of ash.
"You came from the east, bringing fire and light. You kindled the sun so day might dawn. You kindled the moon so night would not be complete darkness. You kindled the flame in the hearts of men so they might know warmth, hope, and faith."
He felt the flames change. Not just temperature—this time it was direction. The fire leaned toward him, stronger and more violently than the first time he had stood at the altar. The entire column of flame bent in his direction, the tips nearly touching his robe, licking at his chest, wrapping him completely in orange-red light. His robe didn't burn. His hands weren't scorched. His hair didn't curl. The fire flowed over him like water over stone, leaving only heat behind.
He opened his eyes and looked inside the flame.
Just like yesterday, the center of the fire was hollow, like a tunnel stretching into something far away. The inner walls glowed gold, then white, then a very pale blue—like winter ice on the Gods Eye. At the deepest point of that blue, something moved. Not fire. Not light. It was—
He saw King's Landing. From high above, the woods north of the city, a sea of dark green treetops swaying in the wind. In the middle of the forest was a small clearing. A large black shape crouched there. Much bigger than when he had left. Its scales gleamed, catching dark red reflections in the moonlight. Its wings were folded tight against its body, longer than his arms, neatly tucked with a row of small bone spurs along the edges that flashed in the moonlight. It rested its head on its front claws, golden eyes half-closed, dozing. Scattered around it were the picked-clean bones of a large deer—ribs and leg bones strewn across the ground.
Nearby on a tree branch perched a white shape. Much smaller than the black one but noticeably larger than before. Its wings were folded. Gold-and-silver eyes stared out into the forest, keeping watch. Fine white scales covered its chest and the base of its wings, shining like silver under the moonlight where they peeked through the feathers.
He saw Plume. It shifted on the branch, tilted its head—the exact same way it always did when looking at him—then silently launched into the night and landed on Ember's head. It pecked gently at the black scales. Ember didn't open its eyes, but its tail flicked once, sweeping up a swirl of fallen leaves.
Limpick stood at the altar, staring into the vision inside the flames, his fingers trembling slightly against the stone. He saw Ember. He saw Plume. They were still in the woods. Still alive. Still together. Ember had grown—much larger. Standing, it would probably be taller than a horse now. Plume had grown too; its wings would span wider than a man's arms. They hadn't been discovered. They hadn't been hurt. They were waiting for him.
The image inside the flames began to blur. Blue light surged upward from the bottom, swallowing the forest, the moonlight, Ember, and Plume. Blue turned to white, white to gold, gold to ordinary orange-red. The fire returned to normal, dancing inside the brazier as if nothing had happened.
He heard his own voice echoing through the hall as he finished the final lines of the scripture. He lowered his hands to his sides. His fingers were still shaking—not from the ritual, but because he had seen Ember and Plume. He wanted to go back. Right now. Run out of the castle, down to the docks, jump on a boat, cross the bay, race into the woods, press his face against Ember's scales, let it carry him on its back and fly into the sky, never coming down again.
But he didn't move. He stood at the center of the altar facing the crowded hall, his expression revealing nothing.
The hall was completely silent. No one spoke. No one moved. Those who had been kneeling stayed on their knees, staring up at him with awe, confusion, and fear. The lame blacksmith's mouth hung open. The fishwife covered her face with both hands, tears leaking between her fingers. The boy with the birthmark stood in the corner, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted like he had witnessed something impossible.
Melisandre stepped forward and stood beside him. Her face was flushed in the firelight, her eyes bright—bright as the blue fire he had seen inside the flames. She looked out at the people in the hall, her voice low but perfectly clear.
"You have all seen it. The fire parted before him the way the sea parted before Moses. R'hllor's flame flowed over him without burning him, without scorching him, because he himself is part of the fire. He is a son of flame, chosen by R'hllor."
She turned to face Limpick. She extended her hand, palm up, in the exact same gesture she had used that day in the library. But this time it wasn't an offer of herself. This was formal. Solemn. Like completing a ritual. Her fingers were slightly spread, waiting for him.
"Limpick," she said, "from this day forward, you are a priest of the Lord of Light. Not appointed by me, but anointed by the fire itself. R'hllor's flame has left its mark on you. You belong to Him."