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"You ever been to Pentos?" Limpick asked.
"No," Davon said. "Farthest I've ever gone is King's Landing."
"Same here."
Davon glanced sideways at him. The look was different this time—not measuring, not judging. Something closer to curiosity. "Lady Melisandre thinks very highly of you."
"I know."
"You know why?"
Limpick thought about it. "Because I saw things in the fire."
Davon was quiet for a second. "She sees things in the fire too. She saw you standing on the deck of a ship in Pentos. She thinks you're chosen. I—" He paused. "I don't know. I've never seen what you see in the fire. I just see you standing at the altar, saying the words, adding wood. Same as everyone else."
Limpick didn't answer. Davon was right. He said the same prayers, added the same wood, knelt the same way. The only things that made him different were gone now—scattered somewhere across the world. Without Ember, Plume, and Yuan, he really was just like everyone else.
"Maybe," he said.
The ship crossed the Narrow Sea in five days. On the evening of the fifth day the lookout shouted from the mast—land. Limpick stepped out of the cabin and walked to the bow. A thin gray line lay on the eastern horizon. As they drew closer it thickened into hills, trees, rooftops, and a busy harbor.
Pentos.
The port was smaller than King's Landing but bigger than Dragonstone. Ships crowded the docks—merchant vessels, fishing boats, and a few warships with seahorse figureheads on the bow. People on the piers wore bright, colorful clothes and spoke a language Limpick couldn't understand. He stood on the deck and watched it all, feeling strangely detached. Back in Riverrun he had never even left the city walls. Then Harrenhal, King's Landing, Dragonstone. Now here he was, half a world away from everything he knew.
The ship tied up. Limpick stepped onto the pier with Davon and the three guards right behind him. A man in red robes was waiting—fifty-something, gray hair, lined face, but sharp amber eyes that caught the sunlight like polished stones. He saw Limpick, stepped forward, and gave the priestly greeting—hands crossed over his chest, head slightly bowed.
"Limpick?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I am Terys, priest of the Red Temple in Pentos. I received Lady Melisandre's letter." He glanced at Davon and the guards. "You've had a long journey. Come with me. Rooms are ready."
Terys turned and led them through the streets. Pentos was cleaner and wider than King's Landing. Houses were stone, some whitewashed, some painted yellow, with red-tiled roofs that glowed in the setting sun. People on the street saw the red robes and either traced a quick symbol over their hearts or stepped aside. Limpick noticed but said nothing.
They crossed a small square with a well and a massive tree whose deep-green leaves rustled overhead. On the far side stood a solid stone building with the burning heart of R'hllor hanging above the door. The Red Temple.
Terys pushed the door open. Inside it was smaller and darker than the hall on Dragonstone, but warmer. A brazier burned in the center, orange light reflecting off tapestries that covered the walls—red cloth shot through with golden flames. The floor was wood, warm underfoot. The air smelled of sweet incense.
"Rooms are in the back," Terys said. "One for you alone, one for the four guards. Prayers are at dusk if you wish to join. Tomorrow I'll introduce you to the others."
Limpick nodded. Terys looked like he wanted to say more, then thought better of it and left.
Davon and the guards were shown to their room. Limpick stayed in the main hall, staring into the brazier. The fire burned steady and ordinary. He reached out and slid his hand into the flames. Warm. Not hot. Just like always. He closed his eyes and tried to feel for something—anything. Nothing. No Ember. No Plume. No Yuan. Only the quiet heat moving between his fingers.
He stood there a long time, hand in the fire. Then he pulled it out, turned, and walked to the back courtyard. His room was simple: a bed, a table, a chair, a small chest. The sheets were clean and white. He set his bundle on the table, sat down, and looked out the window. The sky was turning dark. A few bright stars had already appeared.
He took the dragon bone out of his robe and laid it on the table. It was just a gray-white piece of bone now, cool and lifeless. He stared at it for a long time, then picked it up and pressed it against his chest again, right where it used to rest.
He lay down on the bed and stared at the wooden ceiling. A long crack ran across it. Moonlight slipped through the window and lit the crack like a thin silver scar.
He closed his eyes. Outside, the wind whispered against the shutters. Somewhere far away a dog barked once, then fell quiet. He listened to his own heartbeat—slow, steady, alone.
"Ember," he whispered.
No answer.
He turned onto his side, facing the wall. The whitewashed stone felt rough under his fingertips. He left his hand there and didn't move.
He fell asleep with the dragon bone pressed to his chest, cool and silent against his skin.