The morning after leading prayers, Limpick stepped out of the great hall just as the sun cleared the horizon. The sea was scattered with broken gold, bright enough to hurt. He stood on the castle steps, squinted at it for a moment, then walked down to the docks like he did every day.
It was his routine. After the early service he needed the salt wind in his face to clear his head. Melisandre knew about the walks and never asked questions. She probably figured he was out there praying or reading omens in the waves. He didn't correct her. He just needed to look at the water. The sea was big and empty, and when he stared at it he could picture Ember and Plume waiting for him in the northern woods. He hadn't forgotten them.
A couple of fishing boats had just come in. Fishermen were unloading crates of silver fish that flashed in the sunlight. Limpick nodded at them as he passed. They knew him now—"Priest," "Morning, Father," "May the Lord of Light shine on you." He still wasn't used to the titles, but he answered the same way every time: a small nod and the practiced line, "May the Lord of Light light your path." The words came out easy now. His mouth moved while his mind stayed somewhere else.
He kept walking north along the shoreline, past the rocks, until he reached a small hidden cove. Three sides were black cliffs, the fourth open to the sea. The beach was narrow gray sand that disappeared at high tide. He had sat here plenty of times, shoes off, cold water washing over his ankles. Today something was already on the sand.
From a distance it looked like a pile of wet garbage—gray-brown, shapeless, rolling with each wave. When he got closer he stopped.
An octopus. A huge one, bigger than he was. Its mantle was a fat, upside-down sack, eight thick arms sprawled across the sand. Some arms curled with the waves, others were half-buried. Its color was faded, gray-brown with patches of sickly white and purple. One arm was torn short; the stump was pale and twitching. It looked half-dead.
Limpick crouched beside it. The creature's eyes were enormous—bigger than his fist—black, shiny, covered by a thin clear membrane flecked with sand. They stared straight at him. He reached out and touched the mantle. It was slick, cool, and rubbery, but solid underneath. Not dead yet.
Golden text exploded in his head.
[Detected environmental creature: Giant Octopus ×1]
[Evolve into dragon species?]
His hand stayed on the octopus. He looked into those huge black eyes, at the sprawled arms, at the heavy pulsing body. A beached octopus. Dying. If he did nothing it would be gone by nightfall—washed away, picked apart by gulls, just another smear on the sand.
He stood up and scanned the cove. Empty. No boats, no people, not even seabirds. The cliff above hid the castle towers from this angle. His gaze stopped on a narrow crack halfway up the cliff face, almost hidden by bushes. He knew exactly where it led. He had explored every fissure on Dragonstone. That crack climbed all the way to the volcano's rim on the eastern side, facing the open sea—the true heart of the island's dragon glass vein.
He looked back down at the octopus. It was still watching him.
"Fine," he said. "Lucky day for you."
He stripped off his red robe, folded it, and set it on a dry rock. Then he rolled up his sleeves, crouched, and gathered the eight heavy arms one by one like thick ropes. The creature was heavier than he expected—dead weight like a sack of wet sand. He slung the arms over his shoulder, wrapped his arms around the mantle, and heaved. He staggered, almost fell. The octopus's remaining arms draped over his back and waist, not attacking, just holding on like it had found something to cling to.
He carried it toward the cliff. Each step sank into the sand and pulled free again. The creature's body bounced against his chest, torn stump dragging across his hip, wet and cold. At the base of the cliff he set it down, leaned against the rock, and caught his breath. The octopus lay there, arms limp, eyes still fixed on him.
"Quit staring," he muttered. "We're not there yet."
He found the crack—narrow, barely wide enough to squeeze through. He shoved the arms in first, then pushed the heavy mantle through, and finally wriggled inside himself. The fissure was dark. The rock walls were warm, almost hot, like stone fresh from an oven. He climbed upward on hands and knees, octopus draped over his shoulders, arms trailing and bumping against the stone. His knees scraped raw. Sweat ran into his eyes. The creature stayed quiet, just heavy, so damn heavy.
After about half an hour the crack widened into a natural tunnel wide enough for two people. The walls, ceiling, and floor were solid dragon glass—not loose chunks, but living veins growing straight out of the black rock like roots or arteries. Thick as arms in places, thin as threads in others, thousands of them. In the darkness they glowed dark red, weak but constant, lighting the passage like a cathedral made of blood and fire.
Limpick walked slower now, not from exhaustion but from awe. He knew Dragonstone had dragon glass, but he had never seen the vein itself. The pieces he had collected before were nothing compared to this. The entire tunnel was one massive, living deposit stretching from deep underground all the way to the volcano's rim. Fire moved inside it—real fire, not leftover embers. It pulsed upward from the mountain's heart like blood in veins.
The dragon bone against his chest started jumping. Not pulsing—jumping, hard and fast, like it wanted to tear out of his robe. He pressed a hand over it. The octopus moved too. Its arms tightened around him, not crushing, but gripping tighter, trembling with sudden hunger. Its whole body shook—not from cold, but from raw, desperate need. It had smelled the fire.
Limpick kept walking, carrying the dying octopus deeper into the glowing red heart of the mountain.