Limpick lay in bed for a long time, unable to sleep. The dragon bone in his palm kept jumping, harder and faster than it had during the day, like something was pushing him to move. He lifted it closer to his eyes and studied it in the moonlight. The dark-red glow on its surface was no longer flickering on and off. It had turned into a steady line, like a red-hot wire snaking across the gray-white bone, crawling from one end to the other and back again.
He gripped the bone tight, sat up, and ran his fingers over the seven pieces of dragonglass. They were all cool, but each in its own way—some like winter river water, some like late-autumn dew, some like water fresh from the well. He tucked the stones back into his robe one by one, pulled on his shoes, threw on his robe, and slipped out the door.
The corridor was dark. The torches had gone out, leaving only a faint gray moonlight from the window at the far end. His footsteps echoed—thud, thud, thud—through the empty hallway. When he passed Melisandre's room he paused. No light showed under the door. She was asleep. He kept going, down the stairs, through the great hall where the brazier had burned down to glowing embers, then out the side door into the courtyard.
The night wind blew in from the sea, salty and cold, carrying the sharp bite of sulfur. The moon hung low in the western sky, just a thin sliver now, its light weak. He crossed the courtyard, slipped out the rear gate, and followed a narrow gravel path toward the eastern side of the island.
He walked at a steady pace, not rushing. The dragon bone in his robe throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He pressed a hand over his heart, feeling the pulse travel both ways—his heartbeat feeding the bone, the bone feeding him. He was calling to Ember and Plume. Not with words, not with magic, but with his heartbeat. Hundreds of miles away, across Blackwater Bay, past King's Landing, through the northern woods. He knew they could feel it. Every night when he closed his eyes he could sense Ember's slow, deep breathing, like waves against rock. Now he was amplifying it, quickening his pulse, letting the dragon bone burn hotter in his hand.
He stood by the sea for a long time, facing north across Blackwater Bay, across King's Landing, across the forest. The wind whipped his robe and plastered his hair to his face, but he didn't move. The moon set. Stars filled the sky, thick and bright. Light appeared on the water—not moonlight, not starlight, but a faint blue glow rising from below, spreading wide across a large patch of sea like someone had lit a lantern on the ocean floor. It was Yuan. Deep below, beside its clutch of eggs in the heart of the dragon-glass vein. It had felt his call—not meant for it, but for Ember and Plume. Its senses were too sharp. Even through hundreds of feet of water, it had noticed the change in his heartbeat. The blue light brightened for a moment, then faded. It knew he was fine. It didn't need to surface.
Limpick stayed by the sea until the sky began to lighten. A pale gray line appeared on the eastern horizon. Stars faded. The wind grew colder. He turned and started back. As he passed the cove he glanced down the cliff. Yuan wasn't there. The sea looked ordinary, gray-blue waves rolling against the rocks.
The next few days, Limpick went through the motions. Morning prayers, reading, writing, scripture. Evening prayers, adding wood, pouring lamp oil, listening to the faithful's problems. He continued learning magic from Melisandre. He could now move the flames without touching them—slowly, like an old snail inching across the brazier, but he could do it. Melisandre said he had talent, that most people took three months to reach what he had done in one. Limpick lowered his head and gave her a humble look. In his mind he was thinking about Ember and Plume. Had they felt his call? Were they already moving toward him? How long would it take them to get here? How would they cross the sea? Would anyone see them?
On the third evening he sat by the cove for a while. Yuan didn't surface—it was staying deeper, guarding the eggs. But there were signs on the water: a wide trail of darker water stretching from the north all the way to Dragonstone's eastern shore, as if something enormous had just passed underneath. Limpick crouched on the rocks and watched the trail slowly fade and blend into the surrounding sea. He dipped his hand in. The water was cold, colder than the water around it, as if something had just passed through and stolen the warmth.
He pulled his hand back and clenched it into a fist.
They were coming. He could feel it—not through the dragon bone, not through his heartbeat, but deeper, in his bones. From his spine down to his tailbone, through his pelvis, thighs, knees, shins, all the way to the soles of his feet. Not cold. Hot. A burning heat rising from inside his bones, the same fire that lived in the dragon-glass veins, the same blue light Yuan gave off in the deep.
On the fourth night, he woke up.
Not from noise. From vibration. The entire castle was trembling—very lightly, something you wouldn't notice unless you were paying attention. But he felt it. He lay still, eyes open, feeling the tremor pass through the stone floor, up through the bedframe, into his body. Thud. Thud. Thud. Rhythmic. Slow. Heavy. Like a heartbeat, but not his. He sat up, planted his bare feet on the floor. The stone was cool, but beneath that coolness he felt heat rising from far below, from the roots of the mountain, from the deepest part of the volcano. Something down there was breathing, pushing warm air upward with every inhale and exhale.
He pressed his palm to the floor and closed his eyes. He saw them—not with his eyes, but through the dragon bone. Off Dragonstone's eastern shore, two massive dark shapes approached from the north. One on the left, one on the right, far apart but moving in the same direction—toward the island, toward the mountain, toward the dragon-glass vein. They moved slowly and steadily, like two black islands gliding through the sea. Where they passed, the water parted and rose into two long waves that crashed against the cliffs with a boom that shook the entire mountain. The guards would hear it, but they wouldn't think anything unusual. Everyone on the island had been talking about sea monsters lately. They'd just assume another one was passing by.
Limpick pulled on his robe and slipped out. The corridor was pitch black, torches unlit. He moved through the darkness, down the stairs, through the hall, out the side door, across the courtyard, and through the rear gate. He followed the narrow gravel path toward the eastern cliffs. The night wind was strong, nearly knocking him off balance. The moon had set. The stars were brilliant, blanketing the sky. The sea looked empty—too dark to see anything. But he could feel them. They were right there below the cliffs, waiting.
He stood on the cliff top and looked down. Nothing visible. But he knew they were there. He could feel their heartbeats—two of them. One slow and deep, one faster and lighter. Ember's was the slow one, like waves against rock. Plume's was quicker, lighter, like a silver bell in the wind. The two heartbeats merged with the one in his chest and the dragon bone, three rhythms becoming one. Thud… thud… thud… echoing in the darkness.
He took the narrow path along the cliffside. It was steep and treacherous, one side solid rock, the other a sheer drop to the sea. He moved slowly, one hand on the stone wall, stepping carefully. The rock was warmer than usual, almost hot, as if the fire deep inside the mountain had been stirred awake and was rising. He reached the bottom and stepped onto a flat rock jutting out over the water. Waves rolled two or three feet below, splashing his shoes.
He crouched and reached down into the sea. The water was cold, but deeper down he felt heat—not the water itself, but something beneath it. His fingers brushed something smooth, warm, and hard. Scales. Enormous scales, bigger than he was. The muscle underneath them trembled slightly, as if holding back, or waiting.