Limpick looked at the hand she held out to him. Pale, long-fingered, knuckles sharp, the tips faintly red like they'd been held too close to the fire. He didn't take it. Instead he turned to the brazier and stretched both hands over the flames, palms down. The fire surged upward, licking his palms, threading between his fingers like a red snake slipping through the gaps and curling back around. It didn't burn. Just warm—the exact heat of Ember's breath.
Gasps rippled through the hall. Someone stumbled backward. Others dropped to their knees, foreheads pressed to the stone, shoulders shaking. The lame blacksmith lay flat on the floor, trembling. The fishwife let out a sharp, broken sob that echoed off the walls. The boy with the birthmark stepped out of the corner, knelt right in front of the altar, and stared up at Limpick with shining eyes.
Limpick pulled his hands back. The flames settled, shrinking to ordinary fire in the brazier. His palms were unmarked—no redness, no blisters, not even a singed hair. He lowered his arms. His fingers still trembled, but not from fear. He was fighting the urge to press a hand to the dragon bone against his chest, the urge to turn and look toward the window, the urge to run out of the castle, down to the docks, swim the bay, and race into the woods.
Melisandre stood beside him, watching his profile. Her expression was complicated—not pure satisfaction or pride, but something deeper and darker, like that blue point at the center of the flame. She opened her mouth, started to speak, then closed it. She stepped back half a pace and stood behind him like a statue.
The crowd began to leave. They moved slowly, glancing back every few steps, reluctant to go. The lame blacksmith was last. At the doorway he stopped, looked at Limpick, lips moving as if he wanted to speak. In the end he only nodded and vanished into the darkness outside.
The hall grew quiet. The brazier fire had died down to a few glowing coals. Limpick stood in front of the altar, hands at his sides, head lowered, staring at his fingers. They were still trembling faintly. You had to look close to see it.
Melisandre stepped in front of him. She took his wrist. Her hand was hot, the heat sinking through his skin and steadying the tremor. Her thumb pressed against the inside of his wrist, feeling his pulse.
"Your heart is racing," she said.
"I know."
"What are you thinking about?"
Limpick was silent a moment. He couldn't tell her the truth—that he was thinking about Ember and Plume, about the black shape and the white one waiting in the woods north of King's Landing. About whether they had eaten, whether anyone had spotted them, whether they were still waiting. "About the fire," he said. "The blue fire. I saw some things."
Melisandre's fingers tightened on his wrist. "What did you see?"
"King's Landing. The woods north of the city. And—" He paused, choosing his words. "Light. Blue light, deep in the woods, like a lantern."
Melisandre studied him, red eyes narrowing slightly. "You saw an omen in the flames. R'hllor is showing you the way."
Limpick said nothing. It wasn't R'hllor's omen. It was the link between him and Ember stretching across hundreds of miles—mountains, water, cities—unbreakable. But Melisandre didn't need to know that. She needed to believe it was R'hllor's sign. The more devout she thought he was, the more she trusted him. The more she trusted him, the more dragonglass he could get.
"Maybe," he said. "I don't know. I just saw it."
"You're not sure?"
"I'm not sure about anything. I only know the fire is real." That much was true. The fire was real. Ember was real. Plume was real. The rest—R'hllor, the Lord of Light, Azor Ahai's prophecy—he didn't care about any of it. But he wouldn't say that out loud.
Melisandre released his wrist. As her fingers slid away, the tips brushed across his palm—light, deliberate. "Not knowing is good," she said. "The ones who are certain are fools. The fire doesn't need you to be certain. It only needs you to stand in front of it and let it burn through you."
She turned to the brazier, stirred the dying coals, and added two fresh pieces. The fire flared up again, painting her pale face orange-red and highlighting the fine lines on her skin—not wrinkles, but marks left by flames, the same as the ruby at her throat.
"You're tired," she said with her back to him. "Go rest. There will be much to do tomorrow."
Limpick didn't move. "What things?"
"You're a priest now. Not just my assistant—the priest of Dragonstone. You'll lead the prayers, preach to the faithful, tend the altar and the holy fire." She turned to face him. "Are you ready?"
Limpick thought about it. "No."
The corner of Melisandre's mouth twitched—just once, quick. A real smile, small and private. "No one ever is. I wasn't either. But you don't need to be ready. You only need to stand there and let the fire burn through you."
She stepped close and adjusted the collar of his robe. Her fingers lingered at the side of his neck. Cool skin met hot. The contrast sparked like water on flame.
"Your body is changing," she said. "Growing colder on the outside. The fire inside is burning hotter. Like Dragonstone itself—cold stone on the surface, molten rock beneath."
Limpick stood still while she straightened his collar. Her face was very close. He could see the details in her red eyes—the golden rings in the pupils, layered like tree rings or flames. Her lashes were deep red, long and slightly curled, casting tiny shadows on her cheeks. Her breath was light and steady, carrying the scent of smoke and ash.
She finished with the collar and stepped back. "Go on."
Limpick turned and walked out. He moved quickly down the dark corridor. The torches had gone out, leaving only moonlight from the far window. His footsteps echoed—thud, thud, thud. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the weight of the seven pieces of dragonglass and the dragon bone—warm and heavy against his heart.
Back in his room he didn't light a lamp. He went to the window, pushed it open. Sea wind rushed in, salty and cold, thick with sulfur. Blackwater Bay glittered under the moon, gray-blue and endless. Across the bay, King's Landing was a thin line of gold on the horizon, its lights twinkling like stars.
North of the city was darkness. Woods. Wilderness. No lights, no fires. But he knew what waited in that dark—a black shape crouched in a clearing, head on its front claws, golden eyes half-closed; a white shape perched on a branch, gold-and-silver eyes watching the forest edge, waiting for one man to return.
He reached into his robe and pulled out the dragon bone. It glowed faintly in his palm, dark red, pulsing like a heartbeat. He held it close, studying the surface—the faint light coming from inside, like embers, like the stones in the cavern under Harrenhal, like the glow beneath the Gods Eye.
"Just a little longer," he whispered. "Almost time. Just wait a little longer."
The bone flared once, as if answering. He gripped it tight. The sea wind blew in, ruffling his hair. He stood at the window, staring north for a long time. The moon rose over the bay and set again. The stars shifted. He remained motionless, like a statue—like Melisandre standing before the altar—quiet, silent, but the fire inside him burning steady, never going out.
He slipped the bone back into his robe, closed the window, and lay down on the bed. The dragons carved into the ceiling cast moving shadows in the moonlight, as if alive. He closed his eyes, hand resting over the dragon bone, listening to his heartbeat. Thud… thud… thud. It synced with the bone, with the black shape breathing hundreds of miles away in the woods north of King's Landing.
He fell asleep.